Pirates of Ivalice
by FearandLoathingXIX
Summary: The rules of piracy bend and break as Balthier and Fran scheme, swindle, and all-round swashbuckle their way across Ivalice on the treasure hunt to top all hunts.
1. Chapter 1

Wow... so this has been in the works for a bajillion years (one year aprox).

This story is my tribute to the wonderful world of Ivalice, and the fantastic shenanigans of Pirates of the Caribbean (1). It's not a crossover or anything, but PoTC has been a heavy influence over the writing process.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 1<p>

_A Pirate never leaves the way they came in._

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><p>The body of a Dalmascan guard hit the floor with a soft leathery thud; a far cry from the tin-can clang of Imperial armour in times past.<p>

"This new regime certainly makes crime a great deal _quieter_, at the very least," announced Balthier, the famed Sky Pirate and self-proclaimed Hero of The Bahamut. For his and his partner's limited purposes in the Dalmascan Royal Palace, it was probably the only thing that _had_ changed.

"If only that you might fill the silence up again," caustically remarked Fran, his Viera partner, as she rolled the last unconscious Dalmascan guard into the shadows. It appeared Balthier either didn't hear her, or _chose _not to hear her, as they continued moving through the musty catacombs of the palace.

"I am convinced," he added as they were stalking down a particularly dank passage, "that our Lady Ashe still has enough of a fancy for me to allow these leniencies with us in mind."

Fran fixed him with a well-used steely look, as if she were asking herself for the thousandth time why of all the Humes in the world to partner with, she had to choose _him._

"The ever-rising bounty on your favoured head?" she queried.

"Oh that's naught but flirtation," he replied far too confidently. While Fran couldn't lift her eyebrows in quite the same scathing way as he could when he wanted to ridicule something, her frostiest tone usually served just as well.

"So fond of you is she, that she did not extend an invitation to this festivity," she pointed out, as high above them in the palace the faint whine of trumpets sounded. It was 'Restoration Day' in Dalmasca, celebrating the return of the monarchy to power, and no expenses were to be spared. The invitations had been flown out to the noble and fashionable all the way from Arcades to Rozzaria _months_ in advance.

Balthier had consquently made _no_ small show – meaning a spectacularly large one – of his disapproval that he hadn't been on the guest list; especially considering as he played a more than significant role in restoring said monarch not three years ago. His relations with the Queen, as always, swung from perfectly amiable to quite literally at each other's throats – usually within the space of a few sentences. If they were not getting along, then they were fighting horribly, and Fran often didn't have the patience to work out which it was.

"My dearest thanks for reminding me of that," he said entirely insincerely, then made a hasty hushing gesture and flattened himself against the wall. At the end of the passage ahead of them, two guards walked by, chattering in the dialect they'd heard Penelo and Vaan use at times, but did not sight them.

"No matter to the party anyway," he continued once the guards were out of earshot, and the two quickly walked in the direction the men had come from.

"She is bitter about the ring still," his partner explained.

"I returned her damnable ring to her did I not?" he said indignantly. No response came from Fran, but her lack of one proved answer enough. "I only shaved a _little_ off it. Hardly anything at all... Well at least it _fits _better now," he pointed out exasperatedly.

"T'was not the amount that disturbed her," she countered – which Balthier knew well enough, but that hadn't stopped him protesting it each and every time. As valuable as Dalmascan white gold was, the Queen had personally boosted the bounty on their heads tenfold the trifling amount they'd sheared from the ill-fated wedding ring.

It hadn't been malicious, he'd just needed to pay a rather pressing tab in a tavern, and had been caught extremely short on gil; at the time he'd praised himself for his resourcefulness, even if it had brought far more trouble upon him than it was worth.

"This here will hardly ease her temper," Fran reminded him as he slunk further down the hallway, pressing his ear to every door he passed. "Or – do you _know_ that?"

"Fran, you talk as if we were doing this _just_ to spite her," Balthier tutted, halting at a particular door and pulling a canvas bag off his back. He held one finger to his lips and looked around, then made a double-fingered motion for her to keep watch, as he quietly opened the door and slipped inside.

Fran rested against the far wall with her arms crossed over her chest. As much as he denied it, she knew that her partner was _far_ from ignorant of how this latest caper was going to take with the Queen; more likely it was intentional from the very moment he suggested it. There was certainly no great treasure to be had, just a lost temper, a little profit, and the pointless Hume notion of 'revenge' because one or the both of them had taken umbrage at the other again.

However, she didn't have too long to muse, as Balthier emerged a few minutes later with the bag over his shoulder stuffed to the seams, meaning that it was time for their swift departure.

What patrols existed inside the palace were limited and easy to predict, but that was only because security was so strict around the exits. It was taken for granted that any miscreants out for trouble would be caught trying to get _in_ or _out_ at some point, so that was where they would be caught.

They'd managed to get in through the Garamsythe Walkway, quickly disposing of the few guards stationed by the remote entrance without raising alarm. Unfortunately, the watch would be discovering that roundabouts now, so would no doubt be waiting to ambush them on the way out.

With security as tight as it was, they eventually decided the best alternative escape route was simply to stroll out in broad daylight. Doing what was least expected gave them the element of surprise, if nothing else.

"Good day," remarked Balthier, making a jaunty farewell gesture with one hand as he strolled past the lone guard stationed on the quietest door that led, give or take a wall or two – which were very easily scaled with the flamboyant Dalmascan architecture – onto Rabanastre's streets.

"H-h... hold it!" the guard spluttered. "Wait up, just who ar'you two?"

"Oh, we're but passing travellers come to admire the grandeur of the palace on this festive day," Balthier answered with ease, boring an assured smile into the young man. "Having observed it, we'll be off. After you_,_" he said to his partner suavely, and with a flick of his hand Fran strode past the guard in all of one step, and was half way through the next before he'd cocked his rifle and pointed it at her.

"St-stop right there!" he bellowed. "No-one enters or exits the palace without the proper authority!" Fran slowly turned around to face the young man and crossed her arms, landing him with him an icy cold look – the likes of which Viera were famed for – until it seemed like even the sweltering Dalmascan heat couldn't keep the chill off.

"My boy," Balthier began. "Does my companion here _look_ like a thief to you?" Fran's gaze didn't budge and the unsuspecting guard began to shift awkwardly in his sandals.

"Look, n-no-one can..." he started.

"Tell me," he interrupted firmly. "Do you honestly think she has _any_ room in that armour to hide even a _single_ gil?" Their victim's face quickly defrosted, courtesy of a horrible blush. "Or would you like to check?" Balthier added, and for a moment the Shatterheart of all looks instead hit him right between the eyes. Far too many people said 'yes' to that question for Fran to be pleased with its asking, as much as it might amuse her company.

"As for myself, well, see here," he suggested, holding his bag out by the strap freely for the guard to feel its lightness. "Nought but our travelling provisions." Without needing to be asked he tugged the top open, allowing the guard to see the folded wads of clothing – most of which were his shirts, as Fran had a negligible amount of soft attire.

"Hardly stuffed with the jewels and gold of your radiant Queen, wouldn't you say? Though, exactly what malice would one get up to in the first place with a sack of dirty laundry is beyond my comprehension," he remarked with a guiltless, if not actually _innocent_, tone of voice.

"Well..." the guard hesitated, unable to think of a reasonable answer to the strange foreigner's logic – he'd heard that people from Arcadia were unusual, but this was something else. "You could still be up to no good... sir," he said shakily.

"Up to no good and leaving?" Balthier propositioned. "Forgive my lack of expertise in these matters, but if we were planning malicious deeds against crown and country, should not we want to be going _inside_ the palace?

"... I... suppose... so," admitted the guard uncomfortably, certain that there was something he _had_ to be missing.

"Though, if we are planning something wicked, surely the last thing you want to do is keep the culprits indoors?" the pirate pointed out cheerily, as if it had not occurred to him before.

"O'course not!" the young man stated confidently. "Of course, if _that_ were the case... then... then I would be compelled to eject you from the Palace grounds at once. Her Highness would never tolerate the keeping of criminals inside the Royal Grounds – especially not on this most important day for Dalmasca!" The boy failed to notice Balthier's twitch of annoyance at the mention of the holiday, but he quickly resumed his false jolly temperament.

"That's a lad, so _you_ assume that we are... say... thieving pirates come to wreak great havoc upon the Lady Ashe's festivities – _I'll_ assume you've caught us, and then _we'll_ throw ourselves out, to save you the all trouble of it," he explained, and after patting the boy amiably on the shoulder, turned on his heels and followed Fran out the door. Ducking out of sight fast, they easily clambered over the two walls that separated the formal grounds of the palace from the mobbed streets, and were lost in the crowd before the guard even managed to work out what had happened, much less run frantically to his superiors and tell them what had passed.

"That was a little _too_ easy," remarked Balthier as he swung the bag more comfortably onto his shoulder.

"Luck favoured you," his partner pointed out. "The boy was inexperienced."

"Well, Fran, that is why we must take full advantage of it when the gods look our way," he replied, "for _once_." It did seem that the fates had not been smiling down on them as of recent. While professing to prefer things that way, Balthier also admitted that there was a point when it became _ridiculous_, and that point had long sine passed. "Now, where did we leave her this time?"

"The Westersand," Fran supplied, and started casting suspicious glances at the bag on Balthier's back. "You are _cooing_," she commented, causing him to look worriedly over his shoulder.

"Oh, am I? Damn, then we've got to hurry," he muttered, shouldering his way through the busy streets a little faster, with Fran following close behind.

"Please don't bother telling me that _you_ ought to have cast the magik," he added resolutely, when he felt her questioning eyes on him. "That won't help us now." There wasn't much that _would_ help them now, all they could do was try to the Strahl before the undesirable occurred.

It was a close call in the end; only with a great effort did Balthier manage to keep the bag closed until they were safely inside the cockpit of the Strahl, where he threw down the writhing package crossly. With ripping sounds that suggested all of the clothing he'd sacrificed for the disguise was well and truly _ruined_, over a dozen attractive beige birds burst out and took to the air.

"And for my next trick," he said with a circus-like flourish, at least seeing the amusing side of the unwanted release of the birds – unlike his far less amused co-pilot, who regarded the entire spectacle with frosty disdain.

However, when one of the incredibly valuable Dalmascan 'Desert-Lily' Doves defecated on Balthier's shoulder as it flew around the cockpit with its cohorts in a great frenzy, he began to lose his good humour too.

"The little _bugger_," he snapped as he realized and looked across the offending sleeve of his shirt. "Well, that's at least _three _things they've ruined now." Fran rolled her eyes back – there had been small wars fought over her companion's sartorial requirements on occasion, and she was not particularly in the mood to accommodate him.

"You will afford a new wardrobe soon enough," she told him coolly. "Once we collect the profit."

"That's all well and good, Fran," Balthier said crossly, "but it doesn't do much for the state of my shirt, and it is going to be an _awful_ task to capture them all again before we take them across the border to sell." He was far too concentrated on the situation with the birds – and trying to avoid any further desecration of his attire – to notice Fran calmly stringing her bow.

"Did you not say the down was as valuable as the live creature?" she questioned coolly as her partner started to fuss with the bag from which they'd escaped and his ruined garments inside.

"If you go far enough north," he muttered grimly as he pawed through his things. "The feathers are the warmest lining material for winter clothes. It'd be well out of our way, though," he pointed out as Fran selected an arrow and hitched it to her bow. "Not to mention, they _do_ make rather wonderful pets, their song I hear is rather exquisi-" he fell silent as the soft rush of air from her bow caught his ear, and only turned his head in time to see her doomed target fall limply to the floor.

"Fran," he scolded, and strode over to the corpse, lifting it by the flighted end of the arrow. The poor creature was impaled all the way through, so that both ends of the shaft stuck out from its body. "That was _cruel_," he informed her, and as always she failed to show the slightest recognition of it.

"'Tis quicker this way. Wooden-tip arrows won't damage the down _or_ the ship," she replied obliviously and loaded another arrow, taking down two more with a single shot. With a great sigh, Balthier began to collect the fatalities as they fell, fetching another clean canvas bag to put the feathers in as he sat down and started to pluck the birds.

"I would've liked to keep _one_," he said dolefully as he cradled one in his hands for a moment, brushing its soft feathers with a finger tenderly before beginning to rip them out in handfuls. With the cloaking on the Strahl enabled, it would take an average guard unit about an hour at least to find them in the swirling westersands, which meant it'd be a about _three_ for Dalmascan guards, so they had enough time to spare.

"Pigeon fancier," she accused; her mood had evidently been brightened with the slaughter of the doves.

"I would call you heartless if I didn't know it was a Viera compliment," he countered playfully, finishing the bird he was working on and tossing the bald carcass to the side. Once she'd slain all of the creatures in sight, Fran crossed the Strahl towards the pile of plucked birds with the intention of removing them before takeoff.

"Hold it," he interrupted her action without looking up from his work. "I have plans for those, leave them be."

"Very well," she sighed, hoping that whatever plan he'd contrived wouldn't make any _more_ of a mess of their ship. "I shall ready us for take-off, then."

"Please," he quipped, finishing the last few subjects as quickly as he could before bounding up to the front of the ship.

"You know, I highly suspect there's some feathered friends amiss," he mused as he took the pilot's seat and went automatically through the motions of taking off, easing them into the sky at his own leisure.

"Hmm?"

"Well I counted two dozen in the Palace, but we have only one and a half back there," he explained worriedly. "I do hope they don't get into the engine room."

"We can catch them later," Fran assured him. "For now, it is best that we make haste away from Rabanastre."

"Why the hurry?" he queried as they cruised lazily across the desert. "It is not as if _Her Majesty_ would send the skyforce after a few poachers; they'd laugh her off the throne."

Balthier had enjoyed the displeasure of knowing a number skyforce men during his youth in Arcades, and had found them all cast from such impressively identical moulds that he seriously doubted there would be great disparities in the Dalmascan counterparts. The sorts of men who carried out great airship battles did not tear across the sky to catch a couple of bird thieves, and he knew it.

He also knew that while the gold and more conventional treasures of the Palace would be under lock and key, few would expect the theft of equally valuable birds. However, _most of all_ he knew that Ashe loved a spectacle, and an unexpectedly empty dovecote at a moment when they were meant to flock ever-so dramatically into the summery sky, would enrage her more than enough to dare snubbing him again. Especially after he'd saved her entire miserable capital city.

"True," began Fran cautiously, "_but..._" Balthier winced a little; he hated it when Fran had a 'but', because good things rarely followed. "Someone holds onto our tail." She tapped a stony talon on their radar screen, and sure enough another ship displayed no more than five lengths behind them.

"Now, _how_ can that be?" he muttered, removing one hand from the controls to rub across his jaw. "I was _certain_ we would make a clean run of it."

Fran did not respond, simply kept their radar focused on the continuing presence of the ship until her pilot had no choice but to accept the reality of it. The less she acknowledged his idle talk, the less she encouraged it as a whole; if there was one thing Balthier never needed, it was any more incentive to talk. Her own propensity for silence had suited him right from the moment they met – Viera were never the most talkative of species in the first place – and he'd always insisted his own endless chatter was _more_ than enough for one airship crew.

"Well, we can dance a little I suppose," he relented with a sigh.

"They follow," she announced as he took the Strahl into a hard curve to the left, then swung around into a right. The distance between them and their pursuers didn't get any larger.

"So he knows his way around an airship," Balthier scoffed, when the follower didn't lose them after a tight figure of eight loop. "Hm. Well, we'll see how they like the taste of the desert, eh?" With this he pushed forwards on the Strahl's controls suddenly and plunged them into a sharp dive towards a large dune of the Westersand, as far in the distance, the cliffs that separated them from the Mosophian Highwaste slowly crept over the horizon.

"_Wait for it,_" he murmured as the nose of their ship swooped ever closer to the ground, then wrenched the steering up at the last second and caught the top of the sand dune with ship's engine blast, kicking up a swirling cloud right into their pursuer's face.

However, it didn't stop them, and Balthier's hopeful grin quickly dropped to a scowl.

"Blast!" he snapped as he crossly twisted his ship into a steep climb. "Fran, you better hold onto something," he warned her as he pushed himself firmly back in his seat. "I don't know _who_ taught this wretch to fly, but..."

"_I_ do," she contributed knowingly, having carefully watched for the ship in the few scarce moments it had been visible.

"Oh, pray tell," he replied sharply. "Have we somehow chanced to pick up chase from an unknown prodigy of a famed piloting legend?" As he ranted, he pulled the Strahl back until she was almost vertical, then suddenly pushed it over, dropping all the way through into a nose-down freefall, tearing great lines of condensation across the warm Dalmascan sky as they hurtled towards the ravine of the Mosphoran Highwaste.

"You could say," she remarked with what Viera would call sarcasm; the inside of the ship unusually tranquil compared to the roaring winds outside. "He's _yours_."

"_What?_" he barked as they swooped down almost into the Mosphoran ravine and back up again, remaining so low to the ground that they splattered some unfortunate high-flying monster on the glass of the cockpit. "Damn," he hissed as blood and other grisly remains were streaked across with the wind. "I'll have to clean that later."

"Pirate Ratsbane," Fran finally explained, "–as he would be called. The Galbana pursues us."

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><p><em>End of Chapter 1<em>

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><p>OMG first chapter is done! Good gracious me what is this <em>madness? <em>All will be revealed in good time! Better stay tuned.

_Straight up warning/notification: I_ don't ship any one XII pairing specifically, so there is NO official pairing in this fic, all the characters just interact however inspiration decided they would. Doesn't mean there's no romance, just no set pairings, exactly as it is in the game. PoI (as I call it) is a plot-based gen-fic through and through. Hope that's not a deal-breaker for anyone._  
><em>

Leave a review if you've got the time to, it'd make my day =D

Special thanks go to my faithful team who have been with me through all of this. Particularly Sylla, Mint, Lamanda-panda-pops and Penzie. X


	2. Chapter 2

And so we return again for the second installation of the best thing to happen to Ivalice since Balthier's birth. Wait. That's not right. It's the opposite of that. The _worst _thing to happen since Balthier's birth.

I'm gonna aim for bi-weekly updates, but don't hold me to it, as there's still quite a bit of oohing and aahing that goes on before chapters get up. Anyways.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 2<p>

_A Pirate always disposes of the evidence._

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><p>"The Galbana...? <em>Vaan?<em>" said Balthier crossly, chewing on the words like they had a bad taste. "Are you quite sure?" he demanded, and Fran nodded silently.

"The little..." he growled, climbing higher and then suddenly shutting off the engines down one side of the Strahl. "This cannot do," he carried on. "Chased half way across the Dalmascan skies by a loudmouthed pain in the unmentionable I _taught_ to fly in the first sodding place." He slammed all of his weight into the controls, throwing the Strahl into a tight hairpin turn, almost spinning on the spot.

"He's learned well from you," Fran remarked, as Balthier watched Vaan and Penelo waving cheerfully from their globed cockpit with what could only be described as inconsolable irritation.

"The boy behaves like a damn puppy," he muttered, "chasing around after us merely because we run. That, or he's become the _dog_ of his Queen now," he added, making a vulgar Arcadian gesture with one of his hands in the direction of the ship.

"It makes you the cat, either way" his partner pointed out slyly, allowing herself a smirk at his expense. "They want us to land."

"Oh they _do?_" Balthier retorted too sarcastically to be taken seriously. "Well then we _must_ land," he continued, while very notably failing to do anything of the sort. "Trouble and misfortune forever be heaped upon the man who ever defied Vaan _ratskin,_" he spat the name out like a bone.

"Penelo wears a new gown," Fran interjected before he could gain too much steam, and watched her partner perking up instantly; she knew him far too well to be ignorant of his vices.

"Oh... is that so?" he questioned with a sham of innocence. "She's... _how_ old now?"

"Twenty Hume years," answered Fran, narrowing her eyes as she peered across the distance between ships. "I can see her navel from here." Without another word, Balthier started to prepare the Strahl for landing. Twenty was more than old enough for a girl such a Penelo to know better than to play around with men like him, and _just _young enough for her to be tempted into it anyway.

"If only I had your eyesight, Fran," he lamented playfully as they came in close to land.

"I dread to think," she taunted, rising from her seat and strolling over to the landing hatch. She released the disembarking equipment as soon as they touched down, but Balthier hopped to his feet and made his way over to the scattered bodies of Fran's most recent victims.

"You go on ahead," he said, fluttering his fingers towards the door as he began to gather up the birds. "Go meet our _dear _companions." He rolled his eyes. "I'll be along soon enough."

Feeling it better to leave him to his own devices, Fran strode down the landing hatch of the Strahl and breathed deeply from the fresh air of the Highwaste; the desert was particularly unpleasant on her senses, so returning to lusher climates was a great relief.

Vaan and Penelo's ship was more poorly equipped to rough terrain, so it took a great while longer to find purchase on the rocky outcrops of the Mosphoran cliffs. So Fran settled down on a nearby boulder and waited, wiling away the time by trying to guess at the new smells coming from inside the Strahl. They were accompanied by a number of metallic rattles and clangs, which she assumed to be from their – or _his _– rather extensive collection of cooking utensils.

"Hi Fran!" Penelo's voice rang out from a little way away, and the Viera turned to see the girl herself bounding along a sparsely-used path towards her, as bright as ever. "How're you doing?"

"Well," she replied amiably, but didn't care to elaborate.

"Great. So, uh... how's business?" inquired Penelo cautiously.

"Hm. Luck ill-abuses us," Fran said icily, her speech punctuated by a series of more frantic rattling sounds and metallic clashes from inside the Strahl, which invariably drew Penelo's attention towards the missing half of the famous partnership, even in his absence. "We do not profit as well as our time before the falling of the Bahamut... but... get by."

"Oh," said Penelo respectfully, trying to resist the instinctive tug of her eyes down to the mottling of scars that wound around the Viera's legs, at the mention of the most loaded and loathed word in her and Balthier's vocabulary.

"He seems the same as always to me. I mean," she added hastily, "not that I'd know better than you would, or anything." Fran's scars were easy enough to see, and she'd never concealed the truth; freely providing answers should they be asked of her.

_Balthier_, however, couldn't have the events of the Bahamut dragged out of him for love nor money; something serious had happened – that much had been betrayed over the passing years in accidental comments and mysterious allusions – but he seemed more likely to enlist in the Arcadian army than tell another soul, bar the _one_ that already knew, exactly what had become of him in that accident.

Either the pirate's ears had been burning, or he had impeccable timing, because in the next few moments he called out to the pair them from the belly of the Strahl, though the precise words were lost to the tinny echoes of the ship. He appeared soon after, carrying a dish with what Penelo supposed to be their lunch in it.

"Hark, do I hear idle tongues clucking?" he remarked when he drew closer, and at last issued a proper greeting to the fresh face.

"Penelo, my dear," he said with unmistakable pleasure. "You become a greater temptation every time I lay eyes on you." As if to emphasise the point, he eyed her – new gown and all – fastidiously.

"Heya, Balthier," she replied dutifully, glossing straight over his compliment as if she'd not noticed it at all. Though the faint colour to her face told otherwise.

"_Hey_," a nasal Dalmascan voice bit harshly on the assembled group's ears, as Vaan trudged up and lolled over the nearest boulder, a somewhat petulant atmosphere accompanying him. He could have been in a bad mood through no fault of their own, but more likely he'd overheard Balthier's flirtation and was intending to be sullen about it – which was the far more entertaining option, as far as Balthier was concerned.

"Ahh, Vaan," he purred. "A pirate needs no reason to pursue beauty, but if we did it all the time then I'd be chasing the Galbana sun-up to sun-down." He flashed Penelo another velvet look, and she sighed almost impatiently.

"What's your business?" Fran spoke up bluntly, moving on swiftly before the men started to clash fists rather than words – regrettably not the first time it had happened.

"Ahh, now there's a fine question," Balthier said calculatingly. "For what reason would two _busy_ pirates such as yourselves chase us up to Bujurban altitudes and down through the sand dunes? I presume its not just to stare crossly at me while I compliment your co-pilot, Vaan, but I could be wrong," he taunted, offering Penelo another winning smile for good measure.

"What? I'm not–" Vaan blurted, then struggled as his mind tried to catch up with his mouth. "I mean... _she's_ not– _we're_ not–"

"Vaan!" Penelo yelled suddenly, interrupting before her partner started to blabber entirely unnecessary details about their lives to the worst possible person to blab _anything _to. In the end, Balthier's piercing laugh interrupted them both.

"_S_o it's like that, hmm?" he remarked teasingly. "I wonder if I might not stand a better chance than I thought." He looked over again as Penelo fidgeted and scuffed the toes of her shoes in the dirt.

"Balthier, wouldja _stop it_," she groaned; more than acquainted with Balthier's habit of charming females just because he _could, _Penelo would fall for it as much as she'd willingly fall down all the stairs of the Pharos at Ridorana_._ Although, the strangest quirk was that it wasn't restricted to Humes, or even Viera – she had once watched him charm a lady Seeq for a full hour simply because he was bored.

"I know what you're like," she pointed out dryly; he was always like this at first when they crossed paths.

"Ohh, but you enjoy it anyway," replied Balthier warmly, and the tiny reflection of his smile on her face confirmed the guilty truth. "Vaan knows it too," he added perkily.

"Look, Balthier!" Vaan snapped suddenly. During the conversation, his hand had been slowly creeping across to his dagger, and was just about to close around the handle, but the moment his fingers brushed the weapon he heard the familiar creak of Fran's bow. It was drawn tight, an arrow already loaded, and he didn't dare move. At this range, there'd be no getting up if she hit him, and there wasn't a single one of them who doubted she would, if she had to.

"Thank you, Fran," said Balthier graciously. "I knew there was a reason you're the only woman in my life."

"Was that not because I _tolerate _you?" she mocked. It was perhaps the most accurate answer anyone could contrive towards the reason their partnership worked so well.

"So, Vaan," he began ominously. "How keeps your Queen? I'm sure her leash is wonderfully comfortable, but it must choke a bit when she pulls upon it so."

"I dunno what you're talking about," Vaan growled, his hand on his weapon and Fran's still on him.

"Then what's new?" he scoffed. "Don't take me or my partner for a fool. _Her Highness _could not send the military after us – so who does she send? Her privateers of course."

"_What_?" Penelo sounded genuinely baffled, which was a little ruinous to the general atmosphere. "Guys, just... calm down. Vaan, wouldja_ let go_ of the dagger," she said more forcefully, and reluctantly he obeyed.

"Okay, so now there's no need for the bow, right Fran?" she pleaded, and after looking over to Balthier, who nodded acquiescence, the Viera lowered her weapon also.

"A thrilling little tea-party we're having here," remarked Balthier uninterestedly, picking a cut of meat out of the dish he held and chewing on it thoughtfully. "My, I've _outdone_ myself," he exclaimed, holding the dish out to Penelo. "Would you care to try some?"

"Uh... sure I would," she replied woodenly, making a conscious effort to be relaxed, in the hope that it might help to diffuse the tension. However, once she took the first bite, the falseness faded from her performance.

"Wow... that's actually pretty good," she mumbled through a half-full mouth, taking a second piece just before Balthier extended his arm in Vaan's direction.

"_Vaan_," he invited. "Could we not all use a little _goodwill_ in these treacherous times?" The boy eyed the dish suspiciously, but his stomach got the better of his willpower and he took a piece. Or three.

"So, tell me," he attempted once more, now that his company's appetites had been placated. "Exactly what is the urgency of your 'business' with myself and Fran? If the _princess_ wanted to see me so desperately she could have just invited me to her little shindig in the first place," he said, not lacking the appropriate bitterness.

"She's _Queen_ now," Vaan mumbled lamely through his mouthful, reaching for the dish so often that Balthier simply handed the whole thing to him. "And she..."

"It's not about Ashe," Penelo interrupted. "I've got a message from _your _old ruler."

"I take it you mean boy Solidor," he replied without missing a beat. While he was certainly on better terms with Larsa than Ashe, they both technically wanted the both he and Fran in a prison somewhere. However, Larsa didn't like to trivialise himself with what he called 'details', thankfully, so they were mostly left alone in Arcadia.

"Yeah, I mean Larsa. He says it's a bit too sensitive for a letter," explained Penelo, "just that he has a small job, and he'll pay you well for it."

"We don't bark for the Empire," Balthier stated coolly, and then cast a sidelong glance at Vaan that unequivocally said '_woof woof'._

"It's not like that," insisted Penelo. "He only means it as a one off, a _favour _to him_. _Plus, Fran _said _you don't make as good gil as you used to, so it's not like you couldn't use the money, what with the way things are for you at the port."

Balthier gave his partner a barbarically cold look, instead of their traditional arrangement of having it the other way around. It was part of his upbringing to think that discussing your own finances was at the height of impropriety, but mostly he didn't want Vaan to think he was losing his touch – even if perhaps they _had_ been unlucky of recent.

"I'm sure there'll be big gil in it," she said persuasively. "You know how rich they are in Arcades."

"Uh... I was just wondering... but why aren't _we _doing it then, Penelo?" Vaan asked suddenly, although his words were somewhat muffled by his great mouthfuls of food; however, instantly Balthier's attention was sprung.

"Oh, so you haven't even shared word of this with your partner?" he queried, and Penelo gave him an unappreciative look; she didn't need Balthier stirring up trouble with her and Vaan any more than his mere _presence _already did.

"Well, it's got nothing to do with you," she told Vaan awkwardly. "Larsa _specifically _wants Balthier, so I didn't see the point in saying anything."

"Tsk, secrets, secrets," the pirate in question tutted approvingly. "Well, I'll admit you have piqued my curiosity, so I'll bite as a personal favour." He turned to his partner. "Fran, how does a trip to Arcades suit you?"

"I am not averse. We have to head North already," she pointed out.

"Excellent!" he said with a clap of his hands. "Then it is settled. To Arcades!" He broke away for a moment to glance at the rather unpleasant stain on his shirt. "I will have to see a tailor before then," he remarked. "Can't exactly hold audience with an Emperor with a soiled shirt, and all my best have been sacrificed to a greater cause."

"Really? That's great! Larsa will be so pleased," Penelo gushed, while Vaan looked up bemusedly from a dish of bones that appeared to have been almost _licked_ clean, chewing gluttonously on the very last morsel out of half his mouth.

"Um... thanks for the food, too," she added awkwardly; pirates were _meant_ to be selfish to a certain extent – as Balthier himself so often insisted – but Vaan's stomach took it to the next level.

"T'was nothing," Balthier scoffed. "With a delicacy like _dove_, you hardly need to season it at all, and it boasts such a rich flavour." The sound of a half-eaten wing hitting the plate punctuated the silence that followed.

"...What did you say?" asked Vaan, his mouth still hanging open mid-chew.

"Why, Dalmascan desert-lily dove," Balthier repeated with glee. "We were ever-so fortunate to come across a flock of them, weren't we Fran?"

"Yes," she agreed with a sly shadow of a smile. "Flew into our cockpit, did they not?"

"Quite right, it was a terrible state of affairs," Balthier chuckled. "That's how my poor shirts were ruined. Fine dining is _always_ a worthy cause, though, so I cannot-"

"Now wait a damn minute!" Vaan yelled, throwing down the whole dish and taking a threatening step towards Balthier. "I'm gonna-"

"It was _enchanting_ to hold your acquaintance as always, Penelo," Balthier bade, as he began quickly backing away from her and her enraged companion. "I will send young Larsa your good wishes." Then, just as Vaan tried to lunge at him, he jumped out of the way and followed after Fran in a sprint back to the Strahl.

"I _told _you they're working for her," he panted to his partner after they had pulled up the landing hatch and locked it shut, Vaan beating on it angrily from outside. "Hear that racket?"

"Half right," replied Fran as they made their way up to the cockpit with a little more leisure. "_He_ carries favours for her – must have thought the birds still alive, so planned to bide his time before seizing them from us."

"In a way, he _did_ get them back," Balthier pointed out with a smirk. "They're just not much good to anyone in his stomach." They took their places in the Strahl, and soon the engines hummed reassuringly beneath their seats.

"So you think only _he_ plays fetch for Ashelia?" he theorised thoughtfully, ignoring the clatter of stones being thrown at the windows by a furious Hume on the ground below.

"_She_ is an agent for Emperor Solidor, no doubt," answered Fran. "A dangerous match between the two of them. We could walk straight into a trap come Arcades."

"You need not tell _me_," he replied knowingly. "I am well aware of the potential dangers of strolling into the stronghold of all Arcadia and asking the most powerful adolescent in Ivalice for a cup of tea. _But_," he added with a dash of hope, "if he wanted us caught it would not be hard, considering the size of their skyforce. Seems an awful lot of trouble to go to."

"True. He hunts us not thus far," she conceded. "He may truly desire only our labour, rather than our heads."

"Now, Fran," tutted her partner. "_Most_ of them desire our heads. It's merely a matter of whether they want to collect."

They had long-passed the Galbana, which had – entirely intentionally – been forced to land a great deal further away from its occupants than the Strahl, and therefore was long in their dust before it even started to take off. Perhaps they would give chase, but that would most likely depend on whether Vaan felt like telling his employer that he had _eaten_ the very thing she'd sent him in pursuit of.

"The young lad has _some _reason for inviting our audience, that much is sure," mused Balthier as they flew on. "The only question is _why – _and only one way to find out. Plot a course for Arcades, Fran," he instructed with a tinge of resignation.

"She said he asks for _you_," Fran reminded him as she pored over the navigational panels, charting their course with practised ease. "Perhaps your ties to that city are of importance to him."

"I sincerely hope not," he replied sourly. "You know how I hate old friends."

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><p><em>End of Chapter 2<em>

* * *

><p>Huzzah! And so comes the next part of the story. Hope it was enjoyable to your readings. If so, leave a review!<p>

Special thanks to Sylla, Mint, and Jebus Creiss, who've done me a big favour by picking up on mistakes in the last chapter. I can spell Mosphoran correctly now!


	3. Chapter 3

Well Lah dee dah, another chapter, another day. I hope there are a few poor souls reading this, but I wrote it for my own enjoyment primarily, so no worry to any dire lack of readership, the XII fandom is pretty sleepy at times.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 3<p>

_A Pirate never leaves a room poorer than when he walked in_

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><p>Balthier and Fran strolled nonchalantly through the streets of the uppermost quarter of Arcades, the former whistling a merry Balfonheim ditty with his thumbs hooked over the loops of his belts.<p>

It hadn't been a particularly easy task berthing in Arcades, but it rarely was; not least because they had already exhausted the authorities' patience and threshold for illegal anchorage fines, so the city council were under orders to impound their ship on sight. They'd been forced to steal the Strahl out of the impounded airship warehouse _more_ than once, and probably again later today, knowing their luck. To make matters worse, Balthier had recently managed to add a number of tickets for breaking the air-speed limit for Arcades city sky-space by fives times the official restriction.

So the Strahl was anchored very illegally on the fringes of the city limits, with the cloaking up and a bag of chops for the man, woman, or miscellaneous who would guarantee its still being their upon their return; unfortunately the last of Balthier's stockpile for that purpose.

It would still only slip under the radar of the sky-patrol for a couple of hours at best, but compared to getting into the Arcades Imperial palace, anchoring in the city was about as challenging as finding a drunk pirate in Balfonheim. So it was with great caution that they approached the several-stories high front gates – _only _gates – of the Arcadian Emperor's day-to-day residence.

To put it into contrast, the Dalmascan palace was about as confining as a paper bag with both ends open. Built by the Solidor's ancestors, and last great stronghold of their legacy, the Imperial palace had kept the family safe through generations of betrayal, bloodshed and would-be revolution; not even _waste_ left the grounds without an armed guard.

As Balthier and Fran approached the tall wrought-iron gates of the entrance, the trademark angular profile of a Judge Magister observed the pair carefully. It was Judge Gabranth, the personal guardian of the Emperor himself.

"Afternoon," said Balthier casually upon coming within earshot of the intimidating figure. "Nice weather we're having."

"Your weapons," the tinny bark of a reply came. "They cannot pass onto palace grounds."

"Already accounted for," answered Balthier as he lifted his arms, clad in a new and unsullied shirt. "We are exactly as you see us." There was a moment or two of awkward silence, while a few rank-and-file Imperials watched the discourse curiously.

"Your _weapons_," repeated the Judge, and Balthier let out a great sigh.

"As you wish," he huffed, pulling from inside his sleeve a small, hidden pistol and dropping it on the ground. Next he opened the packs he always travelled with and produced two bags of shot, a few explosives, and a bundle of throwing knives, adding them to the pile. Fran – from seemingly nowhere – also abandoned a pair of serrated knuckle-dusters, and her own bundle of knives.

"Better," the hoarse growl of the Judge confirmed, turning at last and beckoning the two over to a smaller gate that allowed pedestrian access. Once through it, they walked beside Gabranth up the long path in silence, waiting until they were indoors to speak again – no longer under the eyes of every other soldier on duty.

"How has Arcades been treating you, Captain?" inquired Balthier, detecting a faint whistle of a sigh through the grated front of the Judge's helmet.

"As well as can be expected," he answered wearily, and Balthier pulled a sympathetic face.

"That awfully?" Life in Arcades wasn't easy for any foreigner, regardless of their status or position – it was even harsher on those honest kinds of people who didn't play by its sly, subversive rules.

"Tis not a place anyone can rest easy, this city," Fran agreed with as much sympathy as Viera were capable of expressing. Unfortunately for the 'Captain', namely, the presumed-dead Basch Von Ronsenberg – now living under the name of his _actually-_dead brother – there was very little he could do about his situation.

"I live well enough," Basch conceeded, and then his tone became a shade more serious. "What is the nature of your business with the Lord Larsa?" he questioned; he had been ordered to collect his old allies on behalf of his charge, but had evidently not been told for what purpose.

"I would've hoped you could tell us," Balthier replied. "T'was Penelo who insisted so persuasively that we must come and hold audience."

"Hmm," he grunted. "He has not informed me..." he paused, as if he were calculating whether to share a particular thought with two such characters as his present company. "I am concerned by his secrecy," he confessed at last.

"No worry to that," said Balthier assuringly. "It's inescapable Arcadian nature. I must admit we're rather surprised not to be shackled and thrown into the dungeons already."

A gruff laugh echoed out of the helmet, and Balthier recalled how singularly steamy and unpleasant such an article had been to wear, and felt pity again for the poor Captain. He knew personally how miserable it was putting the wretched thing on each and every day.

"Not yet," Basch answered. "Perhaps later, dependant on your actions."

Balthier chuckled, following him around a corner to a corridor with only one door at the far end of it. "Very good," he complimented the underhand threat. "Why, this city'll make an Arcadian out of you yet."

"I would hope not," replied Basch, coming to a halt at the mouth of the hallway. He gestured towards the door at the end. "The Lord waits for you inside. I am to remain here."

"Ouch," remarked Balthier, picking up the edge in the guardian's voice. "Well then, we better not keep him waiting," he added, turning to Fran and allowing her to go before him down the hall. The door at the end had a large, well-worn keyhole, but it was unlocked on this occasion and opened freely under Fran's hand.

"Ahh," came a voice from within before they had even stepped through, and Larsa politely stood up from behind a large desk as they entered. "Balthier and Fran," he greeted. "It has been too long."

"Three years, give or take," he replied. "As far as _you _know, at least."

"Or not. Do not think your movements are beyond my notice," said Larsa knowingly. Any attempts to colour or pattern coordinate him by the mature influences in his life had obviously been furiously resisted, as he wore an unusual collection of brightly coloured and patterned pieces of at least three different suits.

"Yet I don't see a batallion of your men ready to haul us away," Balthier continued, and the last heir of House Solidor nodded wisely.

"I think the phrase is 'better the devil you know'," he remarked as the two pirates sat down and made themselves at ease. "If I wanted to capture you, do not doubt that I could, but your takings from Arcadia are of little significance in the greater scheme, and your presence deters other would-be pirates from more ambitious pursuits."

Balthier tried to maintain composure through the implied slight of their business success; at times, he rather missed the days when their takings were Ivalice-wide news. It seemed they had gained much notoriety for very little reward in the years recently passed. Not to mention, here they were meeting with an Emperor for the possibility of _paid _work – he was almost ashamed of himself, if his pride didn't forbid it.

"Will you take tea?"asked Larsa, with a gesture towards a tray that was already set out on the table.

"It'd be a pleasure," Balthier replied eloquently, while Fran subtly allowed herself a smile at how much stronger the Arcadian tones in his accent became the moment he set foot in the capital. The city held too much of his past for it not to affect him in its presence, no matter how much he'd tried to separate himself from it.

"Penelo sends her love," Balthier remarked smoothly as Larsa poured, and his keen eyes didn't fail to pick up on the youth's rather entertaining reaction; first grinning widely, then remembering himself and frowning to compensate – next, apparently thinking that too suspicious, he chose to smile reservedly, giving off a kind of smug air as he focused all of his faculties on pouring another two cups.

"Oh, yes," he murmured a little awkwardly, trying to play down his atrociously disguised attachment to a penniless Dalmascan orphan-turned-pirate. "How fares she?" he asked when he finally managed to coordinate his speech and thoughts again.

"Ohh, very much a sight for sore eyes," Balthier informed him with a smirk, tormenting Larsa's teenage imagination without mercy. "Wouldn't you say so, Fran?"

Viera had little concept of what the Humes called beauty, so Fran only grasped the concept after extensive tuition from her partner. "A fine woman," she conceded shortly, but could not be cajoled into saying any more on the subject, instead preferring to stay closer to the purpose of their presence. "Now, what charge do you bring us here for?" she questioned stoically.

"Eye on the target, as always," her partner jested, and then turned his address to Larsa seriously. "May I remind you," he said seriously, "that I am not an Arcadian citizen, in spite of the manners and appearance." He had never had much of a taste for the ways of Balfonheim, finding them rather garish and undignified; even nearly ten years gone from the country of his birth, he could still blend in on Arcadian streets almost effortlessly. "Do not expect us to fight for sake King and Country," he warned.

"I would not dream of it," Larsa assured him. "I promise you that your actions will be wholly selfish and entirely immoral." He broke into a grin as he spoke, and Balthier briefly nodded with approval.

"In that case, let's have it out with."

Larsa reached inside his jacket and withdrew a letter. "Examine that, if you will," he requested. Balthier took it up and quickly scanned the crimson handwriting, then passed it over to Fran, and picked up his cup.

"_We will paint the walls of our commode with your blood?" _he recited sceptically, after his partner had raised her eyes from it. "Do you think they meant 'abode', or does the writer really intend to redecorate their lavatory?"

"There is no intelligence bar for fanatics," pointed out Larsa scathingly. "Nevertheless, you follow the gist, and I have dozens more like it from this same group."

"And hundreds more from others, surely," Balthier continued uninterestedly. "Power and popularity always comes with their price."

"These are no ordinary death threats," Larsa protested highly. "Do not take me for a simpleton, Balthier. You know I would not bring you here on a fool's errand."

"It is not whether it is _foolish_, but whether it is profitable, that interests me, _Emperor_," he reminded him sharply, heaping so much emphasis onto Larsa's title that it sounded quite distinctly like an insult.

"Then worry not," the young man stated forcefully, his voice ringing with the power of someone far beyond his years. "This group comprises most of the wealthiest families in Arcadia, so reserve your judgement until I am through." He stopped for a moment, fixing Balthier with a stony look as he gave him his opportunity to object, which he respectfully did not.

"Now," he continued professionally. "These originate from an extremist secret society, one that opposes my reign and worships my late brother as their martyr. The preach that they would rather see me slain than further deface the name of Solidor." His tone was confidant, but mellowed very quickly, as he sighed in an unusually melancholy way. "I know he would not have had it this way," he murmured quietly, "but he is no longer here to fix such matters."

"Somehow, I do not expect you require assistance in protecting yourself from harm," Balthier interjected. Larsa's personal guard was large and highly efficient, not to mention that certain well-held whispers told stories of the Emperor – disguised and under another name – triumphing in tournaments for fencing and combat across all of Ivalice; he could look after himself more than adequately.

"Quite so," he admitted. "My trouble is this society have an extremely wide and secret membership, much of which reaches into my own men. Their roots are so deeply embedded within the Imperial guard that, while I can easily protect myself from any attempt to make good upon their attacks, it is quite impossible locate the base of their organization."

"Then why bother?" suggested Balthier. "If there is no danger, do you really need to track them down? Cannot they be left to their own futile business?"

"Their presence is a nuisance to me," retorted Larsa bitterly, "and they desecrate the name of my good brother. I wish to find their stronghold – I know there is a place within the city that they harbour wanted men, along with a great stockpile of riches that were once the property of my family. If I could only find it... a great weight would be off my mind, but their network is so deep and cautious that I cannot use official channels to look for them."

"So that is why you need us," Balthier surmised.

"That is _exactly_ why I need you," he echoed. "Even moreso," he said cautiously, "because a certain name of yours still holds enough weight to impress the circles their institution is founded on, and gain access without raising suspicion."

Balthier's composure flickered for a split-second of surprise; knew _exactly_ which name the boy spoke of, and had very much hoped he would never hear it again in his lifetime – especially now that the last man with any right to freely call him by it was three years cold in his grave.

Larsa spoke delicately. "It is not commonly known that Bunansa of the skies and the son of Arcades are one and the same. You would not have difficulty gaining access to them would they know of your parentage – if you are willing."

"And what makes you think that I am?" Balthier shot coldly. "I left that life in a rather spectacular fashion._ Burning the bridge_ hardly covers it," he bit, "burning the bridge, boiling the river, and then filling in the empty riverbed might perhaps cover it _a little _more appropriately."

"I have nothing that I may say to you personally on this matter," Larsa confessed respectfully. "I understand that. This is no more than a most personal entreaty for your help. I have nowhere else to turn to, if you cannot grant me aid. Not even my closest guardians can know." While he tried to remain poised, the desperation to Larsa's plea spoke louder than his more reserved words. Balthier thought of Basch outside, and was forced to admit to his curiosity developing a taste for the mysteries running through the story.

"What can you offer us?" Fran demanded, having listened to everything said, and even more carefully to everything _not _said.

"A handsome fee," Larsa answered hopefully. "As well as anything you wish from the stronghold, once you have found it. I remind you that some of the wealthiest families of all Ivalice hole up in there."

"Mere burglary," Balthier retorted, drinking from his teacup and then lowering it to his lap. "I would like to consider our work a little _above_ petty theft – from the living, at least." They were sky pirates, not common criminals. However, when he looked over at Fran, she lifted her silvery eyebrows at him a little and directed her gaze almost imperceptibly towards Larsa.

"However," he quickly amended. "Perhaps we can do a _little_ business."

"It would be our pleasure," Fran confirmed. "You wish us to bring to you their secret place within the city?"

"Yes, exactly," Larsa rushed hopefully. "I _must_ find out where it is."

"From which we may take any object we want ?" she added.

"-Yes," Larsa said again, but Fran saw the flicker of hesitation hidden before his confirmation.

"Then," Balthier cut back into the conversation, "the order of the day would seem that we are to take up a short residence in the city, would it not?" His eyes then drifted over Larsa's head, to the book and ornament-laden shelves all around the small private study. "City living is costly, don't you know?" he hinted shamelessly.

"Oh... but of course," Larsa mumbled, pulling open a number of drawers until he found one containing stacks of gil. He grabbed several and pushed them towards the pair across the desk. "I would think this ought cover your expenses for now." However, Balthier just raised an eyebrow at the twine-bound stack of thousand-gil pieces.

"Is that _all_?" he remarked, and his sharp eyes rolled around the room once more. "I would think a matter of this importance and secrecy would merit something _truly _valuable as an advance payment." He fixed upon a delicately hand-painted vase made of pearly china. "How about that?" he suggested.

"While I cannot fault your eye," Larsa replied quickly, following the pirate's eyes to the piece. "I am afraid it is totally out of the question. That is a one-of-a-kind porcelain of _immense_ historical importance – completely priceless," he explained, only to be slightly alarmed by a sharp burst of laughter.

"Now, now," Balthier reprimanded, the way a parent might talk to a misguided child. "You ought know that _everything _has a value, Your Highness," he explained patronisingly. "It's merely a matter of finding out _how _and _to whom_."

Larsa returned Balthier's loaded look calmly. "I cannot waver," he insisted, reaching back into his desk for more stacks of gil. "I can offer you this much more," he said, setting another five on the table. "Remember that your final reward will be many times that, should you succeed."

Balthier turned his attention to his partner, and though the two did not speak, they seemed to share some kind of short discourse hidden in expressions and slight gestures. Then they both suddenly stood up, Balthier collecting the gil and stacking them into one of his packs.

"A pleasure doing work with you," he said warmly, reaching out to shake Larsa's hand. "We will send you word once our task is done."

"But not before," replied Larsa secretively. "No sense stirring up suspicion." He walked around the desk, escorting them to the door, but stopped before opening it carefully. "It might be wise," he said quietly, "If you did not tell any others of what has passed between us. Not even old allies," he specified, the reference to whom particularly that applied made more than clear.

"I cannot imagine what you could _possibly_ be referring to," Balthier replied humorously, shaking Larsa by the hand again as he opened the door to end their company. "_Why_, we simply stopped by for a nice cup of tea."

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><p><em>End of Chapter 3<em>


	4. Chapter 4

I got a review and remembered I'm still meant to be updating this fic. Heh. I've been heavily distracted by... well. Megamind. I'm entirely obsessed with Megamind at the moment. Yes the giantheaded blue alien with Will Ferrel's voice from that dreamworks move. THAT Megamind. Let's not even go there.

So anyway. Balthier and Fran'n... stuff

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 4<p>

_A Pirate always values things by how much other people don't want him to have it._

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><p>Judge Gabranth, or Basch if you knew him socially, escorted Balthier and Fran back out of the palace after their meeting with Larsa, engaging in an unsuccessful attempt to learn from either of them what had been discussed – to no avail. Soon they strolled freely on the streets of Arcades again, breathing relief to be out from under the crushing atmosphere of the menacing Imperial palace.<p>

Much to their surprise, they found the Strahl almost exactly as they'd left her, bar a few slight irregularities that seemed difficult to explain. While in the same place and hands they had left her in, Balthier insisted there was a crack in the windscreen that had _not _been there before – cracks did not just appear sitting quietly in the corner of a city – and more importantly, the height of his pilot's seat had been altered. Something he claimed would take _days_ to get right again.

However, other than the suspicious signs of a joyride – which was really one of the _least_ troublesome things to become of the ship in their absence, and had probably even helped to keep it undetected by the anchorage monitoring council – they made a clean run of the city, departing it a great deal richer than they arrived. Which was, of course, the best way to depart _anywhere._

If they were lesser pirates, they might have considered flying away to Balfonheim with their takings and leaving Larsa's task to rot. However, there was more to it than the boy Emperor had betrayed, and pirates did not easily walk away from a secret.

"So, Fran? What was it you saw?" asked Balthier once they were securely in their own airship, away from the always-alert ears of Arcades, as he fiddling irately with the height adjustments on his seat. "I could make neither head nor tail of it, but if there is important enough to merit my doing something so singularly _unpleasant_ as what I am going to have to do, then you had better enlighten me before I change my mind." He'd realised that while talking with Larsa, Fran had detected something with her keen Viera senses the boy had been trying to hide.

"There is something he desires from that place we are tasked to find," she explained to him. "He wants no one to know of it, not even his most trusted allies and guardians. That is why _we_ must be so secret – so invisible – and bring him back the location, so that he alone may go there and retrieve it for himself."

"Sounds plausible enough," Balthier murmured thoughtfully. "Are you quite sure of it?" he inquired; if he was dragging up a past he'd been rather effective at burying, plausibility was not enough of a qualifying feature.

"I am certain." Those words were all that he needed to hear. If Fran was sure, then he would place his faith wholly in her intuition.

"Then could you fathom what it might be?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"He was too careful not to speak of it," she replied. "How'ere, it cannot be something of obvious value to us."

"Of course," Balthier followed. "He assumes we wouldn't help ourselves to it of our own accord. We _might, _though," he pointed out.

"A necessary risk." Larsa wasn't fool enough to tell them they could have anything bar _one _piece of seemingly-worthless item from the loot, seeing as they would've quite naturally helped themselves to it. A pirate always wanted what was of the greatest value; however, it was Balthier particularly to whom things were almost exclusively valued by how much other people didn't want him to have them.

"So what are we to do?" Fran asked as her partner flew the ship low around the outer reaches of the city, looking for a place to land.

"Why, we will follow our dear employer's orders to the word_," _he answered with an ill-boding smile. "I will make to Arcades – for a very short-lived return of the prodigal son – discover who these people are and where they sit. Then we'll rob their hiding hole, and exactly to the good Emperor's word, take from it _anything_ _we want_," he finished with a sly grin, which Fran shared in her own more measured form as the Strahl slowly dipped in to land.

"I am to sit the ship, then?"

"If you wouldn't mind," he answered genially. "She'll be much safer occupied, and I'm sure you'll prefer it out here anyway." He made a quick gesture to the foe-ridden plains around them. "The company is far superior to the city, at least," he muttered sarcastically. "We'll communicate in the usual fashion. The moogles at least are trustworthy enough."

"I would rather here than Arcades," Fran confirmed. "Even alone." Balthier kept a fond smile to himself as he stood and headed towards his quarters; Viera were usually solitary by nature, so it gave him no end of pleasure that Fran made an exception of him. However, sentimentality could wait until there was some treasure in their pockets, and he needed to pack for Arcades.

"You know, this might not have to be quite as unpleasant as I suspected," he said by way of announcing his return to the cockpit a while later, having prepared a bag for the city; a few choice provisions he would need to tie him over a short residence in the finer areas of town. "If I arrange enough rumours correctly, I think I should have anyone I need in the palm of my hand by the end of the week. What's more, I'll need not go into old acquaintances, bar the _one_ who can fix everything for me."

"Jules," Fran deduced. "You will trust him for this?"

"I will _bribe _him," Balthier corrected. "His services can make my impersonation of a self I no longer acquaint with as short as can be. Plus," he added brightly, "if he _doesn't _help me I'll knock his teeth in." He wasn't going to enjoy parading around as the son of Cidolphos Bunansa, regardless of whether he _was_ or not, but he could always look forwards to hurting a detestable rumourmonger like Jules.

He suspected that his ghosts had been as exorcised as they were ever going to be anyway, so provided he took care in his actions, he wouldn't need to be any more involved than if he was impersonating a stranger. It would actually be _easier _than becoming a stranger, he supposed, as he could have the benefit of actually technically being his supposed persona.

While he'd be a liar if he claimed to have no anxiety concerning the mission, he certainly wasn't going to let that stand in the way of a perfectly good state secret just _dying _to be uncovered. It could end up being the performance of his lifetime, he reasoned with himself, as he readied the last of his supplies to leave.

"You will have to pass through Sochen," Fran said, plucking a bow from the wall and stringing it over her back. "So I will go with you as far as the old town." Balthier heaved a sigh, and they strolled out onto the foggy Tchita uplands.

"I wish there were some other way," he lamented, as the first of a rather large pack of wildcats started to eye them ominously. "I do so hate that rotten, stinking hole." The first of Fran's arrows took down the leader, but not before it had a chance to roar, and draw close all its pride.

"And the Sochen Cave Palace is rather nasty, too," he quipped, and was greatly delighted to hear Fran laugh.

* * *

><p>"Why if <em>that <em>ain't a sight for my sorry eyes," remarked Jules, the most famed streetear in Arcades and proverbial _Don _of the information market. "Tis' a sky pirate whose name slips my mind for the moment," he exclaimed, examining Balthier carefully, as always.

"And you, Jules," he returned the greeting coolly, nodding his head sharply as he kept his arms crossed tensely over his chest.

"Last I hears you and your delightful companion were getting your sticky fingers into the royal _palace _of all places," Jules told him, and Balthier never failed to be impressed by how fast news travelled in this city.

"If we were, it is no business of yours," he said curtly. "Not when there's other work to be done." He made it clear he was serious, and Jules accordingly beckoned the lone pirate into a quiet corner of the old city where they could speak a little more privately.

"Tis not _Balthier_ who warrants your aid today," he explained ominously, "but... Ffamran." Jules's eyes widened a little in surprise.

"Pray, what's the cause of this jubilant return?" he queried suspiciously.

"A little business, Jules, that's all," answered Balthier. "I lack gil."

"Rather a dull story," he retorted sceptically. "I'd say I didn't believe you, if I hadn't heard of all those debts you be owing all across Balfonheim," Jules sneered. "Ain't so fine on your luck, as of late, am I right?"

"Keep on, Jules, and I shall be forced to break something," Balthier explained coldly. "Preferably your jaw, so as to keep you from talking for a good long while."

"Oh you got the manners of a pirate, all right," the city-greased man muttered defensively. "No need f'personal threats, _dear Ffamran_," he scorned. "I'll always help someone such as yourself... for the right price."

"But of course. You know I always like to use the _best_ on matters of importance," Balthier replied tersely. "Unfortunately enough, that's you." He reached into one of his pockets, and withdrew a still-bound stack of gil.

"I want it known that Ffamran is out of 'hiding'," he instructed, tossing the cash into the eager man's hands. "I'd appreciate it it if I'm well recommended to some reputable codger from the Arcades upper circles as soon as possible." He was exact as he could be in his instructions; if Jules was not given sufficient guidelines, he would weave any mischief he could. "If you do me good service, there will be more where that came from," he stated firmly.

"_My_, Ffamran," Jules exclaimed hyperbolically. "Fancy seeing _you_ here of all places."

"If I need you, I will find you," he concluded, crossing his arms over his chest assuredly. "Believe me, Jules, I _will _find you."

"I'll bet your dashing lady-friend will be a rather enchanting shadow for me, won't she?" he suggested.

"Perhaps," Balthier replied. "As long as you aid me, there's no need for you to watch you back."

"I always do," Jules retorted. "Can't afford not to in my line of work."

"I imagine that's why you're still alive. So far," he quipped threateningly. "Farewell, Jules."

* * *

><p>It was surprisingly easy to find the people he was looking for, Balthier discovered. Jules made good on his end of their dealings – for now, at least, and he'd a foot on the ladder before the day was out, in the form of an elderly gentleman who was well respected, rich, and also completely senseless.<p>

It was then no more than a case of having each rung on the ladder recommend him to the next one up, and by getting men drunk and talking the right talk – with the casual mention of who his father was if the situation needed a catalyst – he was able to find a man who was deeply affiliated with the group Larsa sought. With a little bribery and an innocent spot of blackmail or two, he'd managed to get himself an audience with said fellow one evening, and had informed Fran that tonight could be a game night.

It hadn't been much more than a week, and _she _was keeping perfectly well out in the Uplands in _their _ship by herself, slaying fiends and enjoying the peace and quiet, checking up on Jules now and again. He, on the other hand, missed her company terribly and was sick of this city and all its banalities.

"Ffamran Bunansa!" the bloated gentleman in question said enthusiastically, shaking Balthier roughly by the hand in the smoggy air of one of Upper Arcades' most exclusive lounges. "By gods, it's been years since I heard _your_ name."

"We've had troublesome times, friend," Balthier replied, laying on a city accent thick and heavy, as he had become accustomed to in the past week. "Troublesome years indeed. I thought it better to weather them out away from the City."

"What've you been doing, by heck?" the man inquired, passing Balthier a cup of wine poured from a carafe. "Heh heh!" he coughed, pressing a tarry rag to his mouth and then taking a deep, sucking breath on his pipe. "Oh, no matter to it," he decided hoarsely as smoke billowed from his mouth, when Balthier stonily refused to provide him with an answer. "You have returned at last. Tis only a shame your father is no longer here to see it."

Whilst to the careful observer, a tensing of Balthier's jaw and deepening of the shadows over his face as he drank could be seen, his companion was no such man, and the uncomfortable reaction to the mentioning of the doctor was passed by unnoticed.

"Yes, quite," he muttered sparsely, his knuckles just a little white around his glass.

"A great man, your father," the gentleman proclaimed. "Such vision."

"You could call it that," Balthier reluctantly agreed. 'Obsession' or 'madness' were far closer to the words he preferred, but he reminded himself it was all part of the act.

"Ahhh, such a loss to our city," the man said pitiably, and Balthier saw his opening.

"I hardly agree," he stated clearly, tilting his chin up a little disagreeably. "I think he would be stricken with horror, seeing what has been made of Arcades these three years past." He paused a little for dramatic effect. "A _child _in power," he proclaimed. "What madness would befall us next?"

There was a tense moment in which his companion processed Balthier's words, as if he were considering them carefully for insincerity. It was a lie to say that Balthier was absolutely certain he would be believed – at least not so suddenly, but he would give it his best shot, if it meant getting out of Arcades even a day sooner.

"You're a good fellow, Ffamran," the gentleman chuckled at last. "Oh yes," he snorted, "a smart man indeed. Dammed _right_, too! That foolish boy Larsa spits upon the great name of Solidor with each passing day. Why, if I thought I could live anywhere else I would have fled Arcades the minute Vayne Solidor fell."

"A great loss," Balthier lied, finishing his glass as his companion did the same, but managing to refill the gentleman's cup twice as full as his own, bringing it almost to the brim without being remarked upon.

"Ohh yes indeed," the gentleman slurred, puffing on his pipe again thoughtfully. "Arcades hasn't been the same since."

"And Dalmasca lost too," Balthier pointed out, causing the man to cough suddenly and pound his hand upon the table with the pipe in it, almost snapping the mouthpiece in two.

"_Blast_ to those sand rats too," he grumbled. "We won their lands through fair warfare did we not? Why the blazes return them to a bunch of rebels and that _woman _of a ruler. Oh, but you know what they say about Dalmascan women, don't you, friend?" he rambled with a dirty, drunken laugh. "There's _one thing _they're good for," he laughed again, "–and that's lying on their backs!"

While Balthier could enjoy a joke on some of the more the scandalous ways of Dalmascans as much as the next conservatively-raised Arcadian, he couln't help feeling the desire to punch the gentleman in the face just a little. He would have to settle for emptying his pockets after he passed out. Which wasn't far off, judging by the glazed look in his eyes.

"You're a good fellow, Ffam...ran," he burbled a little more sedately, apparently tired by his sudden exertion of laughter, and not noticing that Balthier hadn't found his humours entertaining in the slightest. "A man who could use good friends," he slurred.

"Good friends is _exactly_ what I'm in the market for," Balthier encouraged, taking another sip – the wine, while purchased by a pig, was still rather to his liking. "I am only just returned here, and know few men of decent standing and influence."

"Is that so?" the gentleman replied. "Well, you know, I happen to be _very well_ connected in this City."

"Oh I can _tell_," Balthier said lavishly. "A man of your presence would have to be."

"Ohhhh yes," he said, puffing out his chest a little before puffing on his pipe a little more. "I could well introduce you to some of my..." he mulled over the word to use, "_compatriots_."

"If that came to pass, I should be greatly indebted to you," Balthier said with a bow of his head, and the gentleman grinned proudly.

"Tis no trouble at all!" he professed, and after rummaging around in his waistcoat pocket with his stubby-fingered hands, he pulled forth a scrap of loose parchment. "Blast and damn," he cursed as he continued to finger around in his jacket. "I cannot find a..."

"Pen?" Balthier supplied, holding out the one he'd been carrying around for this very purpose with pleasure.

"Ah yes, my thanks to you," the gentleman said sluggishly, grasping the slim implement in his hands awkwardly and scrawling out a name. "This is the name of my good brother," he explained. "I will tell him of your troubles, and he will be sure to help you."

"You do too much," Balthier said a little wearily. It was not a name he desired but an address, and if he spent any longer in this city he feared he was going to shoot someone, so he pushed harder.

"How'ere, friend, I must soon be gone, I fear, as I have a little urgent trouble that prevents my remaining in the Upper quarters too long." The gentleman's face contorted with an emotion Balthier gauged to be sympathy.

"What trouble?" the obscene fellow inquired eagerly.

"I have crossed paths with the man who rents rooms to me," he explained. "A _filthy_ _servant _of the Emperor." Balthier was lucky his audience was so drunk, because his dramatics were way over the line of reasonable. "I spoke to him of my displeasure with Arcades of recent, and in my temper may have spoken one or two harsh words. As it becomes the man is a retired soldier! He now not only evicts me from my rooms, but has reported me to the Imperial bureaucracy as highly suspicious and even _traitorous!" _

Balthier made a surprised and enraged expression at the gentleman, suggesting it as the emotion that he should feel in return, which was obediently mimicked it back at him.

"Oh this will not do!" the gentleman snorted with rage. "What an awful state of affairs, my boy! Only just returned and to this? No, no, this will not do," he babbled, leaning over the parchment again and scribbling on an address. "Here, this is the home of my brother's daughter – my dearest niece, Ceciliana," he said. "She is a girl of great empathy and class, a cousin to the House of Solidor. Stay with myself tonight, and I will have words with her tomorrow morn – she will house you until this issue can be... ahem," he chuckled, "resolved."

"Sir," Balthier objected half-heartedly. "Would it not be of the _greatest_ impropriety for a single man such as myself to stay with a similarly unattached lady?" At this, the gentleman just chortled.

"You will see, Ffamran," he sniggered, sucking again on his pipe. "It is not quite as you think. Go to meet her on the morrow, and all will become clear."

"I cannot thank you enough," Balthier said enthusiastically, actually sincere in what he said for once. "You have been of _great _help to me. I feel I must go now, though," he said with a false air of disappointment. "I can still spend one more night safely, thanks to-"

"No no!" the gentleman objected. "I will not hear of it! You will be my guest! Why, you _must_ stay and finish this carafe at least." Balthier looked at the half-empty pitcher of wine, and then at the time on the far wall. It _was _particularly good, and so horribly wasted on such an uncouth, unappreciative audience. Not to mention, the oaf would be unconscious by the time they finished it, so he'd have opportunity to lighten his pockets and get away without trouble.

"Well... I can _certainly_ do that much," he agreed, and poured himself a full glass. He'd have plenty of time.

* * *

><p><em>End of Chapter 4<em>

* * *

><p>Well howdy doody. I just finished a 3 hour exam so what better time to lighten the mood with a little fanfiction? NO better time, I tell you. I hope anyone reading this is enjoying it, I had such a fantastic time writing it I do hope it's not terribly dull and boring or something awful like that :(<p> 


	5. Chapter 5

Update! I've FINISHED MY SECOND YEAR OF UNIVERSITY AT LAST! Only one more to go =D I've also been writing a bunch more, and I feel it's just WRONG to neglect this fic, seeing as I do love it with my heart and soul =D

* * *

><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 5<p>

_A Pirate has no arrogance; their ego is exactly the size it deserves to be.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Balthier strolled into the largest tavern of Old Arcades, standing out like a sore thumb in his conspicuously fine attire, and scanned the room. Due to his being a significant number of drinks on in the night, he managed to pass over Fran at least three times in the mess of occupants before he spotted where she was. Walking confidently, without checking for observers, he approached the table near the back of the room at which she sat.<p>

"I've not seen _you_ here before," he announced playfully. "Tell me, do you frequent this place often?" He leaned over her and rested a hand lightly on her shoulder.

"You've been drinking," she observed sharply, and he smiled at the quickness of her accusation.

"Only a little," he retorted. "Comes with the work, you know."

"Do you have it?" she questioned. "I have grown tired of waiting."

"Is that your way of saying you miss me?" he suggested affectionately. She did not dignify it with an answer, and he reached into one of his packs and felt around for a folded square of parchment, drumming his fingers on her shoulder absentmindedly.

"For you," he said sweetly, passing her the note; any onlooker would think their exchange another ineffective Hume attempt to woo a Viera.

"And the resident?" she inquired, examining the address carefully.

"Fortune smiles on us," he replied, now tapping out some kind of tune against her in time with the tavern music. "Naught but the old man's niece. A bachlorette, I believe – where better to hide renegade men without suspicion? All of Arcades would be abuzz if it was thought such a lady was lodging with lone men. However, 'tis not all in our favour," he added hastily, realising it might draw unwanted attention if they were to converse for too long. "She will be expecting me on the morrow, and it'd be all too suspicious for a new lodger to coincide with theft, burglary and terrible mischief."

"So we go to her tonight?" said Fran hopefully, she was just as eager as her partner to end their business in Arcadia as soon as possible.

"Exactly," he confirmed. "I'll talk my way in and keep her occupied, see if I can't wrangle some information about exactly what it is we're looking for."

Fran nodded once, and then with a sudden frosty look knocked his hand away from her shoulder.

"I am most _deeply_ offended," she said rather loudly, easily reaching the ears of the careful people who listened for tidbits of information in places such as this. "Be _gone_ from me, foolish Hume."

He winked at Fran quickly, a smirk playing about his lips, before he made an obvious show of appearing rejected, then turned and skulked away. When he reached the bar, a boisterous Seeq clapped him empathetically on the back, knocking all the wind out of him with a startled wheeze.

"Iss all rite, mate," he said amiably, while Balthier gasped desperately for air, pulling in alarm on his collar. "Dem Viera _always _turn me down."

"Somehow I'm not surprised," he croaked.

* * *

><p>Daughters in the House of Solidor were considered little more than bargaining chips for forging marital connections, and the mother of the Lady Ceciliana had the misfortune to be expended in a rather poor deal – an effort to recompense a family offended by the Royal House – and was wed to an Arcadian noble of the best breeding, but absolutely no talent or appeal. She had then gone on to die during the birth of their first child, who was even more unfortunately a girl, leaving both father and child with nothing of value to offer the Imperial House, and setting a course for their quick decay from favour.<p>

Growing up under her doting father's overprotective wing, also having the difficult position of being too well-bred to marry someone of no standing, and too much of a socio-political mire for people of standing to aspire to, the young lady had matured husbandless; she now approached her thirtieth year with all the chances of becoming an old maid. However, she was nothing if not idealistic, so had not abandoned hope of a proverbial knight in shining armour.

In fact, she thought of little else, which was rather fortuitous for the man who showed up on her doorstep that night – if not for her. She had been enjoying a quiet evening to herself, when a loud and persistent knocking had forced her to abandon her book of classic romances.

"Who is it?" she said crossly as she slid back the viewing hatch of her door, and was remarkably surprised to see a rather handsome man looking back through it. Usually the only visitors she had at this time of night were old and decrepit men, the kind that made her sure to sleep with the lock fastened on her bedroom door.

"Good evening, Milady. My apologies for the disturbance, but I believe I know your uncle," said Balthier mysteriously. "He insisted that you would be able to help me."

"You know my uncle?" she questioned haughtily. "What business have you with him? I let no one into the house for _his _business without strict instructions."

"Tis not _his_ business that concerns me," replied Balthier nonchalantly, mimicking her tone a little. "I've plenty of my own."

"Then what brings you here?" she demanded suspiciously. "For that matter, who are you?" Balthier smirked a little through the barred hatch.

"Why, I am Ffamran Mied Bunansa, son of the scientist Cidolphus." He paused so that Ceciliana could give an appropriate gasp of surprise.

"The man who raised the Bahamut?" she exclaimed wondrously. While its launching had been an unmitigated failure, those in Arcadia with an appreciative eye for Vayne Solidor's legacy still marveled at the mere raising of such a terrifying weapon in the first place. In the right circles, he and Dr. Cid had been jolted to the status of heroes for their championing of the power of gods, even if they had both been so cruelly snuffed out by a group of_ 'Dalmascan sandrats and amoral pirates_'.

"I believe he did something of the sort," remarked Balthier shortly, "but to business. I've recently returned to Arcades, you see, and met your uncle in my leisures."

"I told you already," she stated, "I can let no one in for Uncle without his strict instructions first."

"I think you mistake my purpose in coming here," he explained patiently. "I have returned to Arcades in order to take a _wife_, and that is why he recommended you to me." Suddenly the window of the door slammed shut, and Balthier pressed his ear against it curiously, hearing some kind of high pitched squeal from inside. He heard the lock clunk open, and had barely enough time to stand up straight before it was eagerly ripped open.

"Why didn't you _say_, dear sir!" she said enthusiastically. "I am terribly sorry, I was most _awfully_ mistaken. Why do come inside, Sir Bunansa. How rude of me to leave you standing outside in the dark for so long!"

"Please, call me whatever you wish," he said casually, bowing his head to her and offering a well-crafted smile as he stepped inside.

"Oh I couldn't possibly," she said with a girlish laugh, sweeping along the corridor of the rather spectacular town house and showing him to her day room. "But what brings you out here at such a time of the evening?"

"Ah yes, it is a late and unsociable hour – for that you have my sincerest apologies," he pleaded rather _in_sincerely, thinking it easier than pointing out break-ins and burglary were traditionally carried out under the cover of darkness. "I am traveling soon, you see," he explained. "I've little time left in Arcades, but being of a proper upbringing, I refuse to marry a woman from anywhere else in Arcadia."

"We _are _the only women of good breeding left in Ivalice, tis true," she remarked proudly, completely oblivious to how passionately her company disagreed with almost everything that she – and _he_ for that matter – said

"Surprising, considering the state of this city now," he said flippantly, knowing it was a blatantly obvious hook, but if she took the bait it'd save him and Fran a great deal of time.

"Oh no doubt," she spouted. "That brat of a my cousin's work of course. Oh, his brother would be _so _disappointed in him." She spoke the lessons she'd been taught extremely well, and Balthier gave a genuine smile of relief; it would not be hard to lure her in the right direction now.

"_Naturally_," he agreed, and pointedly waited for her to continue.

"I mean, my dear cousin Vayne was a tragically flawed man," she admitted, "but he did all things in the interests of making Arcadia a great Empire." She balled up her little fists as she spoke, and pounded them on the arm of her chair with the air of a stroppy toddler. "Why, Larsa seems only to want to run us to ruin!"

"Hmm," Balthier murmured, thinking it encouragement enough.

"If I were not but a woman, I would have put him in his place long ago," she sighed. "Still, at least there are _some _things that we have managed to keep from his ruinous grasp." Instantly, her companion perked up from the relaxed doze he'd been drifting into; he found his company almost soothing in how unbearably boring her parlance was.

"Oh?" he queried. "I would not imagine it to be an easy task, keeping _anything _out of that boy's hands," he remarked.

"People have their ways," she replied suggestively, and Balthier sensed he was getting closer. He realised that he couldn't ask her outright, though, not without risking far too much, so he adopted another tactic.

"My dear Celiana," he proclaimed suddenly.

"_Ceciliana_," she corrected.

"Yes," he shot uninterestedly before continuing. "I can hold my tongue no longer. Why, you are the most enchanting woman I have ever had the fortune to meet!" Blushing suddenly, the lady almost went to pinch herself to ensure she had not fallen asleep reading again – this would not be the first time she had experienced such a dream.

"Oh...oh... you are t-too k-kind," she stuttered breathily. "But this is so...so _sudden_."

"I am a man of impulses," Balthier said suavely, leaning further over the arm of his chair to close in on her a little more. "I have very little time in Arcades, you see," he added with a touch of anxiety. "I've run into some... _trouble_ with the Imperial bureau, and cannot tarry long here or they will imprison me on false charges. But I feel so _strongly_ for you," he lamented theatrically, and then suddenly sprung out of his seat, crossed the short space between them, and clasped one of her hands tightly between his own.

"Elope with me," he rushed, clamping his fingers around a rather attractive jeweled ring that had caught his eye.

"Ffamran!" she gasped, not seeming to notice as he worked her ring loose from her finger. "What are you saying? What are you _thinking?_ Why, I could not possibly elope!"

"Why not?" he challenged. "You live alone, do you not? You have some family, but no strong ties. What is to stop you from leaving here with me tonight?"

"I have... _obligations_," she protested. "You must understand," she pleaded, softening her tone and laying her free hand on top of his. "It is not that I do not feel for you also... Why, I too have never met anyone such as you, Ffamran. Never in my wildest dreams."

If Fran had been there, Balthier was sure she would be giving him a _very_ cutting look. She often made the claim that an inflated ego – particularly his – was worse on Viera senses than a strong Mist. Which he always found a little insulting, considering he didn't think his ego was inflated at all; it was exactly the size it deserved to be.

"Then _why not_?" he proposed forcefully, releasing his grip on her and throwing his hands out dramatically. Ceciliana did not seem to miss her newly-bare finger, nor notice Balthier's palming the missing jewelry into a pocket before he carried on. "I must be gone from Arcades on the morrow, or I shall be dragged away by that dammed Emperor and thrown into his cells. You must come with me tonight, or never," he pleaded rather convincingly, if he permitted himself an appraisal of his own performance.

"You cannot stay even a few days?" she pressed. "Perhaps a few days, so that I may speak to my Father..."

"I cannot vanish into _air_," he countered with a frustrated gesture. "If I return to my rooms I will be taken, and the Imperial forces lurk for me all across the city. I cannot hide in Arcades any longer," he hinted. "So, I must fly from it instead and..." he gave her a meaningful look, "leave you behind, if I must."

The trap was laid now, so all he had to do was sit back and wait for the wheels to turn in her head, hoping they'd come to the right conclusion. It took rather longer than he'd expected, her countenance remaining a mixture of distressed and vacant for far too long to indicate any kind of practical intelligence.

"What... what if there was a place you could hide?" she eventually murmured.

"Impossible!" he snapped wildly. "There is not a hole in Arcades that Larsa knows not of." He paused, and watched his target carefully.

"...There is but one," she whispered, and obligingly Balthier leant closer and put his hands over hers again.

"_Whatever_ do you mean?" he questioned as innocently as he could manage – which wasn't very – but thankfully it was enough for this woman's appalling judge of character.

"There is a place you could hide and the Imperials would never find you," she told him. "I... I know of such a place."

"You do? But... but _how?_" he gasped with very, _very _false disbelief.

"It is...no, I cannot say," she confessed. "I am bound to secrecy, Ffamran, but we could help a man like you."

"You could?... _No_!" he cut away despairingly, removing one of his hands and covering his brow with it, as he struck a 'tortured artist' pose. "It _cannot_ be – I would not have you take a risk like that on my behalf. This has gone far enough," he announced decidedly, "I must go, for both our sakes." He released her and began to stand.

"It is no risk!" she rushed, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him back. "We do it all the time!"

He paused, and slowly moved back to rest. "Ohh? Pray tell," he purred, returning to her side and fixing her with his best smoulder.

"I cannot tell you all, please understand," she explained urgently, "but I give my word that you can be hidden from the Imperials. You do not even have to go far," she added, hoping to convince him to stay; a woman still unmarried at her age did not throw the son of Cidolphus Bunansa into the snapping jaws of the Imperials. _Especially_ not when he wanted to marry her – when he was single-handedly fulfilling everything she'd dreamt of all her life.

"But where _is_ this miraculous place?" Balthier tried to go for 'flabbergasted' in his expression, but wasn't sure how appreciated the effort was.

"...Right here, Ffamran," she whispered. "It is _right here_."

"Oh, what gods have smiled upon me?" he said jubilantly, clapping his hands together with a genuine smile. "My dear, this is a fortunate day for all."

"I cannot tell you any more, not without the consent of my family," she insisted. "However, you may rest easy in knowing it is the most secure hiding-place in all of Arcades."

"You hide other fugitives there?" he questioned. It was his guess that the place she spoke of was underneath the house, with some secret entrance hidden away nearby.

"There are many things of great importance hidden there," she replied. "Things that the cursed Emperor would do _anything _to get his hands on."

"Treasures?" suggested Balthier, his eyes twinkling a little with the lust of his trade.

"Even more valuable than that," she told him eagerly; this exciting adventure had swept away what little sense of reality she had – in her mind, she already thought of him as her fiancée. "Things left behind by Lord Vayne, things hidden when he knew that his fate was cursed," she continued in whispers.

"Fascinating, _fascinating_," said Balthier ecstatically. "Why, you are a far greater a woman than I could ever imagine," he flattered. "Tis' so noble to take part in such a cause." He sighed with relief, _genuine _relief that this awful task would be soon over; he took her hands in his and squeezed them tightly, looking at her passionately before he asked, "but... what is it that Larsa hunts from you so?" He knew well enough that she could remember herself and refuse to tell him, but it was worth a try, as she'd yet to disappoint him.

"Well that's the funniest thing," she said with a victorious chuckle "We hold some of the greatest treasures in Arcades – many things that I cannot tell you of. Yet all that silly brat tries to take from us is the Last Will and Testament of Vayne – a useless scrap of parchment. Those who _truly _cared for him keep that away from his prying hands out of respect, but he would be so curiously persistent in seeking it out."

"Well, to let it pass to Larsa would be disservice to the Lord's great name," Balthier agreed, and then slowly straightened himself up. "If it is not too much of a burden," he said shyly. "Could I request of you something to eat? I have not lunched since I learned that my quarters were being watched and fled."

"But of course, my darling!" Ceciliana replied in elation. "I will go at once!" She got up from her seat with a giggle, and almost glided across the floor, evidently thinking it would be great practice for her to look after her 'beloved'.

Balthier sighed heavily after she left the room, trying to shake the sickening shadow of his pretence off his shoulders; he considered how incredibly _easy_ the poor, foolish woman had been to domesticate. Arcadian socalites were all too _desperate_, in his opinion, and he found it an incredibly unattractive feature in a lady – that was probably why he adored Fran so. On which note, he stood up the moment the daft woman was out of earshot and opened the closest window to his seat, spotting the sullied white tips of two long ears in the shadows.

"Tis here, all right," he whispered, hanging far over the ledge as he spoke to her. "I suspect it lies underneath the house, id' search for a downstairs passage if I were you – and we're in luck, for once," he added excitedly, "seems I've chanced upon our target. Larsa seeks desperately for Vayne's _Will_."

Fran's ears bobbed as she nodded. "Understood," she murmured. "Keep the girl distracted."

Balthier heard the door behind him open, and turned casually – appearing as if he had just been taking some air – to watch Ceciliana re-enter, carrying a plate stacked with fruit and cheeses... and a sizeable pitcher of wine.

He wondered if good taste in alcohol ran in the family, and rather hoped so as he flashed her a warm smile. Balthier brushed himself down and closed the window, whispering just before he shut it a few words that only some creature of very sharp hearing would pick up.

They sounded rather like, _'If you insist.'_

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><p><em>End of Chapter 5<br>_

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><p>Ceciliana is like my parody of stereotypical OCs that get paired with characters like Balthier :P All I will say is that this is not the last we see of her, nor do things go particularly well.<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

It's been a while, and a new chaptered project has been stealing all my words, but I'm on a ROLL tonight so here goes nothing.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 6<p>

_A Pirate does everything with style_

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><p>"Shall I fetch us another bottle, my dear?" asked Balthier sweetly, as he shook the last trickle from what was once a large bottle of wine into his depressingly empty glass.<p>

While Fran was busy burgling the house in search of annex, he was occupying its lone resident. The fact that it involved his drinking a generous amount of wine was simply good luck; his motives were _entirely _those of concern.

"N...no," his target – an inane woman named Cecily, Celia, or something along those lines – murmured groggily. Her eyes had glazed over almost a quarter of the bottle ago, and as she spoke her words slurred. "I have... had _too _much as it is..."

Balthier got up from his seat, realizing he felt a great deal more fluid on his feet than he expected to be, and stepped closer to the woman, taking her hand in his as he dropped to one knee.

"I __do__ apologise," he professed dramatically – feeling distinctly thespian, which may or may not have been to do with the amount of wine he'd consumed that evening. "I have been a terrible burden on you."

"Oh _no_," she giggled, drawing her hand out of his grasp and laying it against her forehead as her face flushed. "You have... been... been most... oh," she sighed, "I feel so dizzy."

"I think that is the wine," Balthier remarked dryly.

"But my heart is aflutter," she slurred excitedly, moving her hands in a demonstrative action. "My stomach tingles, oh, my ears ring..."

"Again, the _wine_," he repeated a shade more sarcastically, when a faint series of knocking sounds came from somewhere in the house. He cocked his head towards the noise out of instinct, and Ceciliana was apparently of enough wits to notice.

"Do you hear something, my love?" she asked worrisomely.

"No," he shot, but seeing her startled expression at the shortness of his reply, thought to soften his words a little. "Not a thing."

He flashed her a smile and set his hand upon hers again, which seemed more than enough to distract her. If he had been trapped into spending the night here, he wouldn't be surprised to wake up with a wedding band screwed onto his finger in his sleep. However, while mysterious knocks were one thing, the large crashing sound that followed a few moments later was harder to account for.

"Aah!" screamed Ceciliana, wobbling to her feet with a terrified expression as she heard the crash. "What in heavens was that?"

Balthier's eyes widened with panic for a few moments, cursing his drunken brain to work a little faster, until eventually he just looked up at her and said, "What?"

"Why, that noise!" she exclaimed. "Did you not hear a most ferocious sound?"

Balthier pulled into an expression of trying to think – rather accurately seeing as he _was _trying to think – and then shook his head.

"I heard nothing," he paused, and considered how likely it was she'd believe him. In all fairness, she'd bought everything else he had told her that night, most of which was just as ridiculous.

"No, I am quite _sure_ I heard a most terrible noise," she insisted, and attempted to walk past Balthier to the door. Jumping to his feet, he rushed after her and caught her by the arm.

"You must have imagined it," he protested, when another loud crash shook through the house, followed by the sound of shattering glass..

"Again!" shrieked the increasingly distressed woman. "You _must _have heard that!"

"I..." Balthier murmured, and his grip on her arm tightened. "Of course!" he snapped. "But how could I allow you to step out yourself?" he protested, changing tack completely and hoping that if he did not act as if he noticed, then nor would she.

"Why, it could be a dangerous criminal," he warned, but didn't see fit to mention there was no _could _about it, it _was _a dangerous criminal – one he happened to know personally. "I would never forgive myself if any harm should befall you." He pulled gently on her arm, and drew her back from the door.

"But..." she pathetically attempted to argue.

"No, no," he instructed, sitting her down again. "You must stay here, where it is safe. I shall go and investigate. Fear not, I shall be back momentarily." He rose, and strode out the door as purposefully as he could without staggering.

He headed towards the back of the house, into what he guessed to be the kitchen, only to discover a well-burgled, _empty_ room. Food was strewn across the floor, a smashed window leading out onto the street, and the door to a large pantry hung half off its hinges, creaking rather sadly in a passing draft.

Balthier considered how in Ivalice he might be able to explain _any_ of it to Ceciliana... and promptly decided to flee.

He peered through the broken window – if it was large enough for a Viera, then surely he would be able to get through as well. He proceeded to cut himself several times on the broken glass lining the frame, and then when he was just over half-way, his balance tipped and he rolled head-first down into the dingy backstreet below; a few unsavoury clicks sounding from various bones as he fell over a shoulder and sprawled out onto his back.

"...Not a _word_, Fran," he warned as he saw her shadow looming over him, wheezing as he tried to catch his breath. "Not a _single _bloody word... or so help me I'm going to crawl into your bed tonight and _pass out_."

That was easily Fran's least favourite of all of her partner's habits, and had long since become a threat rather than an accident. Although, in defence of his behaviour he liked to point out that the doors of cabins in the Strahl _were_ all exactly alike, and he wasn't always of enough mind to discern the one from the other. However, it didn't mean Fran found a drunk, dirty and currently _bleeding_ pirate bunking in her bed any more acceptable as a proposition.

"Perhaps you made a little _too _merry this evening," she remarked icily.

"I thought only to give you the _optimum_ amount of time in which to work," he rebutted rather eloquently for his state. "Evidently you required it. Now give me a damn hand." He extended an arm, and felt it grasped by the long Viera talons as she tossed him to his feet. "We better make a run for it," suggested, and then stumbled into a dash away from the house, followed far more gracefully by his far more sober partner.

Having put a safe amount of space between themselves and the scene of the crime, they slowed at last and Balthier gasped desperately for breath.

"By the way... did you..." he said between pants, "get it?" He straightened up and brushed himself off as best he could – _another_ shirt ruined, he despaired, as Fran waved a rolled piece of parchment in his face.

"I did," she answered. "T'was well hid." It had actually taken a good while find the annex, so she'd needed all the time they had – not that she'd tell Balthier. The room turned out to be hidden under a trapdoor in the floor of the pantry; the smell of food had covered up the entrance to her nose at first, but she'd eventually been able to pick out the foreign, musty smell seeping out from under the door on a tell-tale draft.

That had been the _easy_ part; it'd been even more of a task to search through the chaotic clutter of items piled up in the dark cellar for Vayne's Will. Unfortunately, the noise that she'd made leaving had been unavoidable, because the draft had pulled the door to the cupboard shut on her while she was in the cellar, and it locked from the outside. She'd had to kick it back open, and realizing the need to escape quickly following the disturbance, smashing the window had seemed like the best thing to do; although Balthier seemed far from approving.

"Well you still found time enough to make a racket," he commented dryly. "There is going to be a criminal investigation waiting in the morning, no doubt." He paused thoughtfully. "_Another _one, I mean."

"Needs be," she replied. "We have what Larsa wants."

"Right," he agreed. "Now we only have to work out _why _he wants it."

"Oh? Did your _doting_ subject not tell you?" she said, her tone rife with sarcasm.

"Afraid not," he replied frostily. "Even _they_ don't know why he's so desperate." His tumble from the window had rather soured his good mood, and Fran's baiting did little to alleviate it. "But there must be something of worth in the damn thing. The boy's not one to hunt for fool's gold," he pointed out sharply; nor were _they_, for that matter, and he'd have even less to be pleased about should things turn out that way.

"It smells of magicks," she told him in an attempt to placate his aggravated temper. "I think there lies a seal or glyph in it."

"Hm. Now _that's _interesting," he consented. "Rather interest–..." As they stepped off a curb, Balthier lost his balance and wobbled unsteadily. "Oh sod it!" he snapped, deciding to write off the rest of the day before it could do him any _more _harm. "Leave the bloody thing for tomorrow, Fran," he muttered with exhaustion. "I only wish to go to bed."

"So long as it is your own," she replied.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Fran found her partner awake, dressed, and breakfasted long before she was, which was unusual at the best of times. <em>More<em> unusual was seeing him in the company of an Arcadian, but there he was. Finishing the remnants of a meal that would have fed a large family of Seeqs, judging by the size of the plate alone, Balthier was avidly engaged in conversation with a local patron of the tavern.

"Morning, Fran" he said amiably, mopping grease from his plate with a crust bread, as she sat down opposite him. "This gentleman and I were just discussing the benefits of a full Arcadian breakfast as a remedy to a night in which one has consumed just a _glass_ or two more wine than one ought to have."

"Or a bottle," she corrected, and he wagged his finger at her reprimandingly, though he still smiled.

"Angelo, this is my partner," he introduced the stranger, and then extended his hand in front of him. The man eyed Fran suspiciously. "Fran," he instructed humourously. "Tell the good man you're my partner." He wiggled his fingers hungrily.

"Yes, we are partners," Fran confirmed, and the Arcadian gentleman's face quickly cycled from shocked, to envy, and then finally resentment. He reached into his pocked and pulled out a handful of gil, counting out several of them into Balthier's eagerly waiting palm.

"Lovely doing business with you," Balthier gloated with a wink. "Til next time, friend," he bade the man goodbye, holding out his other hand to shake as he stood up.

"Farewell, con-man," the man returned, and shrugged his shoulders dismissively as the two walked away.

Fran started to wonder if spending time in this city had reconciled her partner with it a little; this was the first time she had seen him willingly engage anyone in Arcades, and furthermore he appeared to have actually enjoyed the fellow's company. He'd also stopped trying to tone down his accent over the week, and other mannerisms and attitudes seemed notably more attuned to his environment.

She had always found Balthier to be a curious mix of Arcadian traits and vicious antithesis of those characteristics – as if he felt the need to compensate for those things that still stamped him indelibly with the mark of his once-home. He'd proven as such by once remarking to her early in their partnership – heavily inebriated at the time – that his single greatest problem was that you '_could take the man out of Arcades, but never Arcades out of the man.'_

"Shall we make to the Palace, you think?" he suggested jovially. His sourness from the night before was long-banished, for which she was thankful.

"Yes, I am sure Lord Larsa awaits us – the Strahl will hold til lunch," she answered. As they walked, Balthier reached into one of his packs and carefully withdrew the rolled parchment upon which Vayne's will was written. "Our loot," she explained as he unfurled and studied it.

"I _do_ recall," he said seriously, his eyes not moving from the page – he hadn't been _that_ inebriated, after all. "Have you any bright ideas about what it hides?" he questioned once he had finished reading.

"None yet. There is some magick inside it, but it does not react to touch as do most glyphs," she told him. The smell of the glyph was strong, but embedded deeply within the paper, making it hard to sense.

"Hmm, well we can hold onto it a little while longer, can't we?" he proposed with a devious smirk. "Until the boy realises it is gone, at least – once we find out how much it's worth to him, we'll figure out what to do with it."

At the Imperial palace, they had the great honour of being met at the gates by Larsa himself, with hardly so much as a clank of armour in sight – the Emperor explained that he had sent most of the on-duty guards on a drill the moment he received their advance warning of their arrival – no witnesses to bear testament to their coming here.

Basch was also notably absent; most likely, he too had been sent away to keep him from the business as well. His charge was taking every measure possible to ensure the absolute secrecy of the entire operation he had engaged the set of pirates in.

So as __they__ promised, Balthier and Fran gave Larsa the exact location of the group's safehouse; then as they _were_ promised, they'd taken whatever pleased them from it upon discovery.

"You have done myself and Arcades a great service," generously thanked the Emperor as he snapped shut the book within which he had noted the address, as well as a few brief directions about entering the annex. "As a token of my thanks, I should like to invite you to the palace later tonight – there is a small soiree taking place over some official matter or the other," he went on with a dismissive wave of his hand, making clear how little he thought of such stuffy social events. However, he gave Balthier a knowing look. "I heard of your... _dissatisfaction_ with Ashe's lack of invitation, so would not have you feel the same treatment at my own hands."

"Why, I cannot imagine _what_ you mean," remarked Balthier innocently, and then quickly consulted his partner. "Fran? How would you feel toward a little festivity?"

"… I see no harm in it," she cautiously answered. While such parties were not entirely within her sphere of comfort, it was still bearable, and she knew her partner enjoyed the respite from their usual habits. "Tis not too often we can be hosted by an Emperor," she added, and _may_ have had the contents of other guests' pockets in mind as she smirked, but if she did, she didn't say.

"I trust you have the subtlety not to appear as yourselves," Larsa presumed – the 'Heroes of the Bahamut' were only famed in Dalmasca because of their battle _against _Arcadia, so their status in the continent was still that of pirates and thieves; not to mention, they killed the previous monarch.

"Oh, I haven't been myself all week," Balthier casually replied. "It's becoming rather par for course."

"Naturally," intejected Fran, "we require some coin to ease our way."

"Oh, but of course," Larsa agreed, withdrawing a pouch of gil from one of the many pockets in the curious plum coloured suit jacket he wore. Fran took the pouch and examined the contents, then gave Balthier a disparaging look.

"Friend," Balthier addressed Larsa seriously, "that will barely cover Fran's new dress." She remained silent, thinking it better to wait until Larsa was gone before she informed him that they would _not_ waste half their commission on any such thing.

Larsa made a show of objecting, but relented quickly and withdrew another pouch from yet another pocket, and handed it over for the two to inspect. He had aimed to pay them around this amount, but knew better than to start on his target price after their last exchange.

"That's more like it," Balthier conduced, drawing the drawstring purse shut and slipping it into a pack for safekeeping. "Then, we shall return later this evening," he remarked with a shallow bow, and then they parted ways; the few guards stationed had been instructed to allow them out without trouble, and thankfully did so.

"Shall we move the Strahl?" suggested Fran as they put their backs to the palace and strolled gratefully back onto Arcades' streets.

"I think so," Balthier concurred. "Never safe to leave her for too long, is it? I think I should be able to manage some papers that'll allow us to dock in the aerodrome tonight, which may save us too long a stagger later tonight."

"Save _yourself_," she corrected, as they wove between Arcadians out for an afternoon stroll – in this part of the city there were very few citizens who actually laboured for a living; though, that didn't mean there weren't any – some were hard at work as the pair of pirates chattered away. Walls didn't have ears of their _own_ volition, after all.

"Oh you never know, Fran," replied Balthier smarmily. "That bottle might look a lot more inviting after two hours of Arcades' rich and famous. I know they make _me_ consider a drinking Dalmascan drainpipe or two." The Drainpipe was the signature drink of Rabanastre, so named because that's where it should be poured by any wise individual.

Dalmascans in general, Balthier liked to remark, brewed a wide selection of filth that most sane-minded individuals would not put in their engines, let alone their bodies. He personally thought it terrifying that a delicate creature like Penelo could very comfortably outdrink him, because she had grown up drinking the hard desert alcohols, which were also highly effective at stripping paint.

"There will be plenty of pickings to be had," she pointed out. "I'll not lack occupation."

"Always got your eye on the gil," he said with a chuckle. "You know, I wonder sometimes why it took you forty-five years to discover that piracy was your true calling in life."

"It had not occurred to me before," she answered matter-of-factly. "We have no property in the Wood, so theft does not come naturally to Viera."

"So..." he said with a pause that he savoured every morsel of, "you're saying I corrupted you?"

"Perhaps," she replied with a faint smile, at which he he was clearly delighted.

Thereafter they parted ways for an hour or so in Upper Arcades, each with equal portions of Larsa's fee. Balthier went first to attend to the relevant papers for their return, and Fran spent her share of the gil on materials for a bow, as well as spare parts for the Strahl. When her partner returned, she discovered that he'd spent the rest of his gil somewhat unwisely; apparently he had not been joking about buying her a new dress.

"No," she stated the moment she saw the case he carried under his arm.

"You have _nothing_ appropriate to wear, Fran," he said sternly. "I knew you would not see to it yourself. And don't worry about the gil, there was plenty of gil left."

"I do not like Hume garmants," she objected frostily.

"And you assume poorly of me that I would not know it," he retorted. "Tis not for Humes in the first place, and you know well enough you cannot go to the Palace to rob people of their belongings in what you have now." He saw that she wished to protest further, but would not have any of it and spoke out before she could.

"No further on the matter until you have seen the dammed thing," he stated, holding up one finger in a silencing motion, and then set off towards the Strahl.

She gave him a hard look, reluctant to have to abide by what she thought ridiculous traditions of Humes for the sake of one evening, but eventually decided the better of it; they would get nowhere if she was stopped at palace gates for being under-dressed. In addition, a gown would probably present a little more of Hume's so-called 'modesty' than her usual armour, which might at least detract a little attention from her presence.

Viera outside of the Wood wer uncommon enough in Dalmasca, which was far nearer to where the Golmore Jungle lay. So in Arcadia her kind were a great rarity, and in the upper circles of society it was _unheard _of.

As a result, the treatment of her kind in Arcades was... unreliable, to say the least. Balthier was a _highly_ enlightened and liberal example of the typical Arcadian male – which was saying a lot, considering some of her partner's more outrageous behaviour. Arcadians were, on the whole, notorious for their demeaning and contemptuous treatment of any outsiders, particularly those of other species.

So while she was not easily made anxious, she _was_ a little concerned about the predictable onslaught of lecherous behaviour from the men, so before Balthier disappeared to begin his lengthy grooming process, she stopped him for a moment.

"I will wear the dress," she said coolly, and did not miss the brightening of his face, "on the condition that you will pretend as my other half for the night." That would at least spare her a flurry of misguided attempts to woo her; she would only have to put up with _his_ attempts, which were a great deal less offensive and much easier to ignore.

Balthier raised a single eyebrow as high as he possibly could.

"_Pretend? _Fran, I thought I _was _your other half?" he exclaimed with surprise – even a little hurt; although, a tell-tale smirk at the corner of his mouth betrayed his performance.

Unfortunately, Fran's expression did not so much as flicker. She simply took the dress from his hands, turned away, and then closed her door.

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><p>End of Chapter 6<p>

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><p>OH MAN IT IS LATE AND I SAID I'D GO TO SLEEP LIKE 2 HOURS AGO BUT THEN I DIDN'T. Funny how that happens.<p>

Every time I come back to this story I remember how much I fancy Balthier ;)


	7. Chapter 7

Balthier fangirling and watching game cutscenes results in updates of PoI! All is wonderful with the world =D

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 7<p>

_A Pirate can always think on his feet._

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><p>Fran didn't entirely appreciate her partner wolf-whistling at her after she emerged from her room in the formal dress he'd given her, but she wasn't foolish enough to expect anything less from him. The gown was not greatly different to traditional Viera attire, simply adding a long skirt that skimmed the floor as she walked; however, it was enough that she could be admitted to the palace without scandal.<p>

"I have outdone myself," Balthier remarked, practically glowing with pride. "Fran, you are enchanting _beyond_ words," he serenaded far too enthusiastically for anyone, much less a highly sceptical Viera, to take seriously.

"No doubt you will find some given time," she interjected coldly. "New," she accused, directing her address at his own clothing – not by way of a compliment; it was likely where he'd spend the rest of his share of gil from Larsa, but he just cocked his head at her and grinned.

"Perhaps," he said privately, fastening a jeweled cuff-link in a hand-stitched cuff without the slightest hint of shame. "But, if you will recount, since we left the Dalmascan palace I have had no fewer than _four _shirts ruined in some way or the other, so I am duly entitled to a recompense." Fran said nothing, but her silence was approval enough. They set off from the Strahl through the Arcades aerodrome, and then caught a skycab to the Imperial Palace.

Their entrance was meant to be understated, but it was difficult to be subtle in any actions in Arcades with a Viera at your elbow. While Fran's dress was considerately chosen with all the right intentions, it did absolutely nothing to lower her profile as they entered the Palace. Heads turned from the moment she stepped up to the gates. She began to suspect Balthier had known as much, and probably just wanted to dress her up.

"I have an arm if you desire it," he offered quietly, when he noticed her cold eyes rolling uncomfortably around the main room upon their entrance. He knew his partner far too well to think she would even _consider_ asking for support, so it was always down to him to offer it. He could hardly say that he felt entirely happy with every other man in the room looking at her like an appetizing cut of meat, so he was_ more _than willing to assist..

"Not necessary," she replied confidently, holding her head up high and returning to anyone who dared meet her eye a look that could have shattered glass. She was perfectly capable of handling herself without Balthier's help, but should she wish a little pretense on his part to act as a buffer, she was glad she could ask.

"As you wish," he murmured in reply, letting a hand drift to the small of her back instead, and shooting her a sly smirk – they were _both_ aware he'd take full advantage of the situation to be as outrageous a flirt as he could, simply because she would never let him get away with it normally. Being a pirate, he was an opportunist by nature, so _not_ being allowed something only ever made him want it more. In a way, Fran knew she only reaped what she had sown.

They started to casually sift through the guests in search of Larsa, who was glaringly visible in a startling combination of an electric blue waistcoat, yellow shirt, and boots that were decorated in lime green.

"You know, friend, have you ever considered you may be colorblind?" said Balthier by way of greeting, cutting straight into the middle of an ongoing conversation, much to the shock of every person with an ear bent that way. For a few stark moments, guests only stared at him in blank horror –_ faux pas _wasn't even close to the word for such a comment.

"You know, that is _exactly_ what my governess used to say to me," replied Larsa, and with a warm smile he shook he Balthier by the hand.

"It has been too long since we last met," Balthier choose to lie, while Fran stood behind him neutrally assessing the room. She wouldn't have much chance to slip under the radar and loot belongings as she was, but she was sure some chances to take advantage of the situation would present in time.

"Yes, too long indeed," Larsa agreed guiltlessly, and then turned to the rest of his company. "My friends, may I introduce..." he began, and then trailed off at the right time so that Balthier could supply his inventions for the night. The surrounding guests, meanwhile, had at last noticed that a Viera was with the forthright young man, and were all unashamedly in staring at her, even the women.

"The Viera ambassador to Arcades, Jule" Balthier introduced, stepping aside modestly and gesturing to Fran, "and myself, her secretary."

"Ah, yes. How fares your stay in Arcades?" Larsa questioned merrily, finding great fun in the game being played; being Emperor to one of the great powers in Ivalice left little opportunity for the usual entertainments, so he liked to find them wherever he could.

"Oh, most hospitable, _most _hospitable," Balthier conjectured. "There is no absence of work for the likes of us."

"I can _only_ imagine," Larsa agreed with a private joking tone. "Now, you simply must have a drink," he invited as a waiter passed by with thin fluted glasses of wine, but Balthier held up his hand.

"I think not," he deferred, having had quite his fill the night previous. "Milady, as all of her kind, takes poorly to the spirits, and spending _so much _of my time with her," he said with a very pointed look towards the gentlemen who still eyed his partner, "almost _every _moment of our day together, that I do not partake myself anymore merely out of habit."

Fran remained austere, but Balthier's sharp glances toward the male portion of their present company got the message across quickly enough, and soon a few of them shuffled off – miserably back to their wives or mistresses, or so Balthier liked to imagine.

Larsa, who was evidently usually very bored at this kind of event, probably took more pleasure in their presence than they did, having great fun taking them around and introducing them to various acquaintances and socialites. Balthier took pleasure in having an excuse to dote on his 'employer' without her protest, and spent much of his time scurrying around fetching things for her on utterly useless pretenses. However, it did give him plenty of opportunity to disappear off and return with mysteriously clinking pockets.

"Milady," he said adoringly as he held up his latest offering to her, saving her this time from a pair of gentlemen whose nearby wives ought to have been bothered by the way their husbands were looking at Fran, but were far too engaged in their own chatter to so much as notice that the olive-skinned lady did in fact have foot-long _ears_ on top of her head.

Fran rolled her eyes, but saw that Balthier actually held a watch she had seen drawn from the jacket of one of the men only minutes ago. That, at least, brought a smile to her face. He leant in close, having to stand on the balls of his feet to be able to whisper to her without being overheard.

"Would you believe he _dropped _it?" he said secretively, enjoying himself _far_ too much for the entire evening not to be premeditated in some calculating way.

"No," she replied sceptically. "I wouldn't." He cracked another grin, and with a casual movement dropped the watch into a pocket for safekeeping.

"I know not whether to call you suspicious or wise," he remarked.

"Both," she answered astutely. "How much longer do we need to stay?" she questioned, growing increasingly bored of the evening; however, for the first time in the evening Balthier was completely oblivious to her, instead staring across the room with a serious expression. "...Balthier?" she probed, speaking softly so that they might not be overheard.

"What?" he said with a jump, snapping his eyes back over to hers with nothing less than panic.

"I asked when we were to leave," she repeated, but found new matters more important. "What draws your concern so?"

"Oh, nothing," he said over-carelessly. "Nothing at all. We need not stay a moment longer... _in fact_," he announced hastily. "I really think we should go – right now." She followed the trail of his distressed glances, but the only remarkable thing she saw was a young woman striding purposefully across the room in their direction, with her expression none too favourable. Which was not really _that_ remarkable, because it happened a great deal more than one would expect with Balthier.

Or exactly as often as you would expect, depending on how well you knew him.

Larsa was at the woman's elbow was, and did not seem nearly half so troubled by the situation as either the woman or Balthier did; upon reaching a close enough distance he attempted to introduce the two.

"Now, have you two met my cous-" he began amiably, but was quite shockingly cut off by the woman.

"You!" she shrieked, gesturing at Balthier. "What in _Ivalice _are you doing here Ffa-" She did not get half way through the word before he interrupted.

"Maddam _please!_" he rushed forcefully, his composition not wavering in spite of becoming the subject of the entire room's scrutiny in a heartbeat.

"Recall, my dear, that we are in _public_," he sternly reminded her, and she looked around as if she had honestly forgotten. She hushed herself quickly, as Balthier took her by the arm and led her away – throwing back a look back at Fran in the hope that she would clear the unexpected mess up for him.

Larsa looked more puzzled than anyone, and even Fran did not fully understand who the woman was or what her purpose was with Balthier. She could well be the lady of the house they had robbed a night previously, but he had not been specific enough that she could know for sure. It was equally likely she was another contact Balthier had upset posing as his old self, or even an old flame who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"...My cousin, Ceciliana," Larsa finished his sentence half-heartedly, and then looked across to Fran. "Although I suspect that perhaps an introduction is not necessary." They both watched as Balthier wove skillfully between guests still dotting the doorway, managing to keep his stunned company from murmuring another word.

"Seems not," she replied coolly, feeling Larsa's observation with indifference.

"You do not know her yourself?" he questioned intuitively. "I rather thought that partners such as yourselves shared all?" Fran smiled in a way that suggested she might have laughed in a more relaxed situation.

"I have not the patience or interest for such things," she remarked, "so, he does not share them with me." Even partners as close as they were needed their own privacies, and Fran cared very little for the details of who or what Balthier had amused himself with, should he feel the need to. She was confidant that if he truly desired to be with another, then he would simply say so and end their partnership on good terms – just as she would if it happened the other way round.

"Then you have no idea what all _that _would be about?" inquired Larsa, who was nurturing ever-greater concern for his cousin's welfare.

"I am afraid to say, Emperor," she told him, with the faintest shadow of a smile behind her sharp Viera features. "Your guess is like to be as good as mine."

Meanwhile, Balthier had only just hustled his unwanted company out of sight when spoke up again.

"What in the _blazes_ are you doing here?" Ceciliana cried in outrage, twisting her wrist out of Balthier's grasp the moment they were out of earshot of the majority of guests. "I... I thought you were a renegade of the Empire, Ffamran!" she said furiously.

"Moreover, you went off last night and never returned! I was sure that you had been slain by a burglar...why, I was so shocked I passed out for a full hour!" Balthier thought to mention that was far more likely because of the copious amount of wine she had drunk, but sensed that there would be no stopping her until she'd said her piece, so he calmly crossed his arms and waited.

"I awoke to discover my home ransacked and _no_ sign of you, so I ran and begged for help – only to discover from my uncle that you were meant to come to me _today! _Why, when he discovered that you had already come, and I told him of your seeking a marriage, he professed to know nothing of it!" Balthier attempted to stop his eyes from glazing over as she spoke, but it was an uphill battle as she raged on, "I deserve an explanation for this... nay, I _demand_ an explanation, Ffamran!"

Balthier didn't quite know what to say once she finished; he'd rather been banking on never seeing this woman again in his life, but suddenly she was threatening to blow the whole operation.

"I...I..." he stuttered, urgently shredding through ideas in his mind. "... Could I not say the same to you!" he retorted confidently, landing upon the first thought that seemed even remotely plausible. "Was _I_ not lied to also?" he assaulted. "Offered to be hid by a woman I see in the Emperor's select company the very next evening? A fine place to put my trust, for sure," he said scathingly, and the sharpness of his words appeared to hurt her.

"I..." she gasped, shocked. "I am not _known _to be that which you know I am," she countered in a hushed, secretive tone, stepping closer to him and checking over her shoulder for eavesdroppers. "_You _claimed no such thing. You swore to me you would be imprisoned should you be on Arcades' streets another day. Now here _you _are in the Emperor's entourage," she accused determinedly.

"I..." Balthier began, forcing his mind to think faster than it was accustomed to, feeling like he was trying to grind through some well-rusted cogs. "I _am _a prisoner," he concluded dramatically, and instead of reading _total_ disbelief on her face, there was only confusion.

"Ah... when I left to search for the burglar last night... I... arrived in the kitchen and saw... Imperials!" he lied spectacularly. "They had tailed me to the upper district, and were soon to search your very house – it was they who made such terrible noises, you see!"

He half-believed that at any minute, Ceciliana would burst out laughing and call in the Imperials to drag him off to the cells, or worse yet, force him at gunpoint to _marry _the awful woman. Nevertheless, as long as she was silent he continued trying to dig upwards.

"Then... in my panic, I attempted to hide from them, causing the awful mess you found, but then... I realized if I were to be caught, _your_ good name would be dragged down with my own, and your family's secret possibly uncovered – this I could not abide by," he professed dramatically, piecing parts of the story together as he went.

"I realized I had but a moment to flee, and in my panic smashed a window and fled from it; I had only _seconds_ to spare before they were to descend upon the house. I ran from them as far as I could," he narrated, his confidence growing as he realized that his audience was listening with nothing less than total and utter devotion – giving him what he felt was much greater artistic license with his storytelling.

"I ran... but _alas,_" he lamented tragically, "I was captured by no fewer than _eight_ Imperial soldiers..._ armed _Imperials... and their dogs." He decided that he much preferred this version of events for the night; it was far more heroic a story than his ungracefully falling half-drunk out a window, then adding insult to injury by landing in a puddle.

"Finally... this very morning I was in shackles before the Emperor," he carried on solemnly. "Only... he did not throw me to the dungeon because... because he wants me to uncover the rest of the..." He closed in on the idea suddenly, the brilliance of it only just occurring to him as he said it. "Yes!" he gasped. "Why, your very act of identifying me has put yourself at risk, Cecily!" he burst.

"Cecilian-" the poor woman began, but Balthier ran straight over her words without a second thought.

"-Larsa has imprisoned me, and is forcing my hand to uncover the entire network through my association with your family. Of course, I could not deny your acquaintance, as you almost spoke my name just now... but I thought that perhaps if I could whisk you away, you might make an escape. So... so you_ must leave at once!_"

It was a feat of fiction that even he was impressed with.

"Your entire family could be at risk if the Emperor finds out what has passed between us," he pointed out ominously, when she didn't make an immediate dash to jump out of the nearest window and rid himself of her for good.

"...Truly?" Celiana gasped frightfully, not even a moment of doubt crossing her mind.

"True as my feelings for you," he replied sharply; unquestionably the only _honest_ thing he'd said to her so far. "But you must be gone," he urged, wrapping his hands around her shoulders and starting to push her in the direction of the exit. "If you can get away now, perhaps the both of us will be spared," he promised as he felt her hesitation through her body. "I may be able to slip his net of my own accord."

"Do you really believe so, my love?" she exclaimed, and thankfully Balthier was behind her, so didn't notice the way he flinched with her intolerably romantic term of address.

"Oh, certainly," he said through gritted teeth, guiding her forwards ever-faster.

"So, we will be together again soon?" she questioned, spinning around suddenly to face him with barely enough time for Balthier to wipe the scowl off his face.

"I will be by your side again before you even_ know it_, Ce-... my dear," he unashamedly lied, and then with a firm grip whirled her away from him again. "However you simply _must _go now," he pleaded, "or all will be lost."

He was certain that he had her this time, when at the last moment she spun again and threw her arms around his neck. With a soft groan Balthier rubbed a hand on his forehead wearily, patting her on the back with his other arm the way someone might pet a whining dog. He counted to five before gently prying her away – he didn't want to be too harsh, for fear of scurrying her convenient but totally misplaced faith in him.

"Later, later," he repeated as lovingly as he could, in spite of a general inclination towards throttling her rather than embracing. "Now _off_ you run." He gave her a slight push, accompanying it with a smile to suggest he was being playful rather than trying to shove her out of his way, muttering thanks to all the gods he knew as she finally took the hint and skittered out the door.

Once he had confirmed that she was most _definitely_ gone, Balthier smoothed his hair back into place, checked his appearance in a nearby mirror, and returned to the party none the worse for wear.

"Pray tell, what was all that in aid of, if you don't mind my asking?" interrogated Larsa when the incognito pirate rejoined his company. "Ought I be worried for my cousin Ceciliana?"

"Ceciliana?" Balthier echoed, finding the name only vaguely familiar, and then realizing _that _was what the woman had kept on saying to him. "Well, only as much as she ought be worried about you," he replied ambiguously, stepping close to Fran's side with a relieved air.

"I am afraid I do not quite follow you," said Larsa cautiously.

"_I am afraid _that was rather the point," he replied glibly; as a true Arcadian born and bred he knew better than anyone the value of information, and was careful not to give away anything without getting its due price first. His failing good mood – a result of his fraught interaction – did nothing to help his tone, either.

"I imagine I better not ask, in that case," the Emperor said with a quiet, resigned sigh. "If you do not mind, I have some other company to attend to." He bowed his head politely before stepping away from them, but none of them missed the air of mistrust and tension. Cordial as they may be at times, they were not – and _would not_ – ever be true allies.

"We ought to be going on our way too," Balthier remarked wearily to Fran, who more than shared his sentiments. "It never pays to leave the Strahl alone for too long, _especially _in Arcadia," he added with a glance at the retreating Emperor.

Whether the Strahl was far remodelled beyond her original state or not, the Empire still maintained that she was Arcadian property, and as such should be recaptured at any costs. In practice Larsa was not much bothered about rogue airships, and the Arcadian skyfleet certainly wasn't missing them, so he overlooked the issue at both their conveniences. Too much upset, however, could easily change the boy's mind.

"We moored in the aerodrome for once," she reminded him as they made their swift disappearances, as did a number of carelessly abandoned purses of gil from pockets and poorly-fastened handbags.

"Which I am very much glad for," he said with relief, stretching out each of his shoulders in an attempt to alleviate all the tension the past few days' trials had wound up in them. "We'll not have far to go before we're home again."

The words were optimistically spoken, but too soon said, as what greeted them was a very cold, _empty _airship bay in the Arcades aerodrome.

"But... how could this happen?" questioned Balthier exasperatedly, his voice echoing off the bare walls. "Are you _certain _it was this bay?" he asked Fran again.

"You know as well as I, we've made no mistake," she replied, her own tone dead and unforgiving, as she observed the vast empty space.

"Well then, _where _is our ship?" he snapped crossly. "It is not as if she could just vanish into thin air." He paused for a moment and then picked up a discarded nut near his feet, throwing it high and long through the air, waiting hopelessly for a clang against something, _anything _that might suggest that what he saw wasn't what he saw.

He looked across at Fran, who wore a solemn expression.

"No," he pleaded, his anger quickly funnelling away into fear. "Don't say it, Fran."

"She is gone," the verdict passed.

"Don't you think I can _see _that?" he snarled, gesturing with a wild swing of his arm across the empty bay.

"Stolen," Fran elaborated, in spite of not being asked to.

"How?" Balthier spluttered. "By whom? She's armed with the best security devices in Ivalice, and was docked in the _safest damn aerodrome in the entire nation!"_ His shouts bounced around the distressingly empty room, reminding them both of the terrible reality.

"There ought to have been guards," she pointed out, beginning to look around for any clues or calling cards left by the apparent thieves.

"There ought to have been a great _many_ things," Balthier retorted sharply, "at least _one_ of which should have prevented someone from stealing our sodding airship. _We _are the sky pirates," he ranted, "it is _we_ who are meant to steal!" There were only a few situations in which Balthier ever really lost his cool, but losing his airship – and by extension his entire means of living – filled places one through to five in his top ten list.

"_We _must be calm," Fran interjected coldly, and her partner shot her a less than pleased look. "There will be some sign of what passed," she explained. "Ranting will not help."

"No, but it _will_ make me feel a great deal better," he replied cruelly, tipping his head back to look up at the sky above them longingly. "It has to be the little brat," he declared suddenly, sounding as if his Imperially-unsympathetic company of present were starting to rub off on him. "The invitation tonight must have been a distraction, so that he could double-cross us."

"Why would he do so now?" Fran pointed out. "He may possess the power to have her taken, but it is unlikely he would choose to betray us now, when he has so recently been asking for our aid."

"Who _else_ could it be?" Balthier challenged. "Vaan is only just capable of finding _his_ own ship, let alone ours, and it is hardly common knowledge that we docked in Arcades tonight." The private bay they had used was one of the most secure in the whole Aerodrome, _and_ filled out in a pseudonym; not a soul ought to have been able to find them.

"There is no such thing as a secret in this city," his partner reminded him frostily. Arcades was hardly Balthier's favourite place to be, but she was unashamedly even _less_ fond of it than he. "Larsa did not act as if he held guilt toward us tonight," she said firmly, making it clear that she was giving him her final decision on the matter. "I do not believe he betrayed us."

Balthier turned his head to watch at her for a moment, and then sighed and dropped his shoulders. He knew better than to question her judgment, even if it was not the result he wanted.

"Think of how loose our tongues were upon leaving the Palace today," she pointed out regrettably. "We chatted too casually of our intent to dock at the aerodrome. Any passer-by with an ear for us would have heard. _Did hear._"

Balthier's steadily more ruinious expression confirmed the dreadful truth; they ought have known better, but their confidence from the night's pursuits had loosened their caution.

"Then there's only one man left in the city who could have done this," he said resignedly. "And I did so try to _warn _him against it." After flexing his fingers, he wrapped one hand around the other and clicked his knuckles wearily. "Come," he beckoned, setting off towards the aerodrome exit. "I think it time we pay my dear acquaintance Jules a visit."

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><p>End of Chapter 7<p>

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><p>Traa-la-la leave a review if you fancy. Tell you what I fancy? Balthier. ;)<p> 


	8. Chapter 8

Doop doop doop I've been left in my house all alone up in Leeds, and when real life stops FANFICTION rabbits come in to play with me. I feed them carrots of delicious fanfic updates =D

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 8<p>

_A Pirate resorts to any means to get what they want._

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><p>It was no easy feat to find out where in the sprawling city of Arcades its most slippery resident roomed on any given night, but this was no normal night; not when two enraged pirates were out of their ship and very much wanted it back.<p>

It was also a great deal easier to find out what you wanted from the lowlife if you had a Viera in an evening dress at your disposal; although, Balthier was very much aware that in any other circumstance Fran would have cut off one of his ears by now, for the various things he'd promised various unsavoury men. Not least because she explicitly told him so.

They weren't exactly _proud _of the things they had to do to find out where Jules was keeping rooms currently, especially when it took every last gil they had swiped from Larsa's guests to grease their way through. However, they got what they needed in the end, so there was a surprise of the most unpleasant kind waiting for a particular streetear when he turned in, just as dawn was bleaching the pale Arcadian sky.

Jules had barely shut and bolted the door behind him when he heard a distinctive click of knuckles.

"Who goes there?" he sputtered, pulling a short knife out of his waistcost in a breath and pressing his back against the door.

"_Jules,_" Balthier purred ominously, stepping out of the shadows and passing through the murky morning light. "That's no way to greet a friend."

"Now, Ffam... now _Balthier_," Jules said hastily, pressing his body harder against the door, as if he might be able to slip through it if he pushed hard enough. "Ain't no need to be unreasonable here." He clenched the knife tightly in his hand, pointing it towards the pirate as he advanced on him.

Balthier got within a few steps – not speaking, nor hesitating, barely even _breathing _as he closed in – when Jules' nerves finally snapped and he lurched forward with the knife. As quickly as Jules lashed out, Balthier reacted, blocking first and then punching him hard across the jaw.

Jules dropped the knife as he was slammed back against the door, and no sooner had he hit _it_ than Balthier hit _him _again, finally grabbing Jules firmly by the throat and holding him in place, pinned down like a butterfly on a board.

"_Now_ that I've got your attention," said the pirate sinisterly, as small amount of blood rolled from his victim's lip onto his hand. "Perhaps you'd like to tell me what you did with my airship, eh?"

"I..." Jules choked, the hand around his throat mangling his voice, "...got no clue what you're talking about... _Ffamran,_" he managed to croak disdainfully, so without hesitation Balthier pulled him off the wall and slammed him back against it.

"Allow me to make myself clear," he elucidated. "Presently, Jules, I am a sky pirate without a sky. My way of life has been taken from me, so, do not make me take _your _life in return." Jules flailed, refusing to speak, until Fran slowly approached from her own dark corner.

"He may notkill you," she told the streetear coolly; Jules was one of the few in Ivalice who knew Balthier couldn't kill in cold blood. "I _will_. Do not mistake that."

"Quite right, I don't think there's more than a drop of mercy in this room between the three of us," Balthier pointed out. "Just one little piece of information, Jules. It's not that hard – and we're paying you such a price for it too."

"Your own life," murmured Fran, stepping closer still until Jules could see right into her emotionless eyes. If Balthier was caged, he could and _would _kill, but Jules knew he didn't need to, because he had no doubt that the only Viera sky pirate in Ivalice would cut his throat without even a _thought_ of remorse.

"B-b-bba'gamnan!" he spluttered, spraying an unsavoury blood spittle over Balthier's shirt cuff, much to the man's displeasure. The grip on his neck loosened only a little.

"The bounty hunter?" Balthier inquired. "_He _has the Strahl?" How that particular Bangaa still clung to life was beyond the comprehension of most pirates in the business; he had a tenacity for clinging onto his miserable existence that even Balthier and Fran couldn't match.

"He washed back up in Old Arcades," Jules struggled to speak, but did so anyway as his life depended on it. "Down on his luck for good – puts you to blame for it all, o'course."

"So you sold him the Strahl," Balthier concluded, filling in the gaps quickly. "I'm sure he couldn't be _more_ generous in his price." Suddenly his fist tightened around Jules and his gaze hardened further. "Where's he taking her?"

"Away from Arcadia's all I know," Jules coughed. "Heard'im saying to his kin they'd have to make fast away from Arcades, but that's all."

"Hm... to Rabanastre, perhaps? I'm sure the Lady Ashe would pay half of her country's treasury for it, or perhaps he intends to bait us into a trap." Balthier's hand began to loosen, and Jules appreciated the ability to breathe again greatly.

"Or to Bujerba," Fran suggested. "Many a ship-runner makes berth there in the continent's outskirts."

"Either way, it looks like we're heading south," Balthier replied irritably. "Very well. Goodnight, Jules." He stepped back and threw the man aside like soiled laundry. Jules had no sooner landed than his door had been unlocked and opened, Balthier and Fran striding out side by side onto Arcadian streets again.

"How are we to catch her?" asked Fran as they paced quickly through the city, wondering exactly where Balthier was leading them.

"We're just going to have to _borrow _an airship," he said sourly. "At least until we can catch the Strahl."

"It will be no easy task," she pointed out. "Ours is the fastest in the skies."

"For once, it gives me no pleasure to recall that," he replied bitterly, "but we shall have to do as we can. I am going to make that Bangaa and his rotten family regret ever taking up our bounty," he seethed as they approached the aerodrome.

"Then how should we proceed?" she questioned in a hushed voice, once they had slipped among the red-eyed travelers and sleepy night-shift. "Burgle the private bays for something of our liking?"

"Seems like our only option," he said sharply. "I am in _no_ mood to romance an aerodrome dolly for access to a commercial ship tonight." Fran did not see fit to tell him, but she far preferred her partner like this to any of his more energetic or flirtatious moods. In fact, it was only his hard, business side that made her tolerate its rather theatrical counterpart.

Fortunately, they could still access the area in which private airships were docked, because as far as the aerodrome knew the Strahl was still there, so it was simply a matter of prying open doors to the other bays until they found one holding an airship that suited them. It was then fairly easy to go about stealing an airship, seeing as Ba'gamnan and his cronies had already destroyed most of the security measures stealing _theirs._

"Oh, I do so hate these gaudy pleasure-cruisers," lamented Balthier as he settled down to hotwire the glossar engines of their chosen 'loan'. Fran had already made the appropriate adjustments in the engine room, so it was merely a matter of overriding the control panel in the cockpit – which didn't take very long provided you knew what you were doing – so the ship was powering up in no time.

"Why don't you go snoop around in the cabins?" he suggested once they'd taken off, purring uninspiringly over the city. "Endeavour to find something to boost our spirits before we reach the Dalmascan border."

"Dalmasca?" Fran questioned. "You think it so certain Ba'gamnan makes there?" She had made it clear her suspicions were on the floating isle of Bujerba.

"Your bet is as good as mine, Fran," he replied coolly. "However, I think it rather unlikely we'll get _anywhere _if we travel via Balfonheim port, so Bujerba or Rabanastre, we're heading south all the same. Nalbina is likely our first safe port of call."

"Very well," she consented, and set course for Nalbina. Her partner's observations about Balfonheim were entirely accurate, if they were detected anywhere near the port they'd have any wings clipped faster than they could be hurled into a lockhouse, which is what would happen the Balfonheim bosses were in a _merciful_ mood. Which – being pirates – was never.

After a few listless minutes staring out of the windows, finding herself very restless, she took up her partner on his suggestion and went to rummage around the cabins for some hours while they recklessly hurtled away from Arcades. Balthier flew erratically at the best of times, but when time was of the essence it was usually a miracle they didn't have any head-on collisions with stationary parts of the landscape, let alone _other _airships.

She eventually bored of that pursuit too, and returned to the navigational controls of the ship, sitting alongside from the pilot's seat, where Balthier slouched unhappily.

"Unless you wish to take up the accordion, or a number of other musical instruments, there is little of worth on board," she announced as she sat down, the touch of humour to her voice going unappreciated. They had apparently taken the ship of a band of musicians booked to play in Arcades that night, but going by the quality and quantity of their valuables, they weren't very _good _musicians.

"Then what are the papers you hold?" he asked briskly, referring to a few loose leafs of manuscript she clutched mysteriously in one hand.

"Oh, not of worth, but perhaps some amusement," she explained enigmatically. "For these are addressed to _you_."

"_... Most_ entertaining, Fran," he deadpanned; he clearly didn't believe she was serious, and the ship rolled on through the sky without reaction, Balthier's temperament no brighter.

"See for yourself," she replied more insistently, holding out the first page. "Read here – '_Aria for a Sky Pirate'._" For the briefest of moments, Balthier's eyes flitted over the musical score.

"Well, now that could be _any _sky pirate," he scoffed. "I am hardly the only one of our kind."

"Signed with a woman's name," she pointed out, an edge to her voice suggesting that she was finding this a great deal more amusing than her partner was.

"Contrary to popular belief I have not wooed _all_ of the women in Ivalice," he clucked scathingly. "You ought to know better, Fran."

"It is a song of love," she argued, but he only scoffed again.

"That means naught," he scorned. "Tis a popular theme for songs."

"Here, the tune reads, '_son of Arcades flown to distant lands'_," she read, seeming to take a great deal of enjoyment in her partner's denial. "_Hero of the desert, hero of my heart," _she continued dryly.

One of the funny quirks of Viera – or Fran, at least – was that on her lips professions of love and romantic ballads sounded exactly like parodies, rather than the genuine article. Balthier, however, was not laughing.

"Arcades,_ my dear_," he said a little more sharply. "Has a population of well over a million. I can name at least ten sky pirates of note who had their origins in that city, many of whom may have ventured to Dalmasca at some point in their career."

"And all of whom saved the city of Rabanastre from destruction, I presume?" she pushed mercilessly.

"Did you consider," he rebutted, "that perhaps it is merely an _allegorical_ tune, no origin in reality on which it is based upon?"

"–_Balthier, to whom now my heart belongs,"_ she recited, having obviously read the entire song from the start and simply toying with her partner like a cat with a mouse. For a good long while there was silence.

"...There could be more than one."

"_Balthier, the Champion of the Bahamut," _she baited, so entertained that she'd gone as far as to openly smile – though to what extent it was less of a smile and more of a smirk was negotiable.

"Give me that!" Balthier finally snapped, snatching the sheet of music out of her hand and holding it up to study. He didn't put it past Fran – in one of her more mischievous moods – to have made the entire thing up. However, with a shudder at the rest of the tune, which only worsted its already dismal start, folded and stowed the parchments in one of his packs, _far _from the reach of his partner.

"No comment," he said decidedly; then spitefully added a minute or so later. "You were meant to find something to raise _my _spirits, not your own."

"You failed to specify," she taunted, and Balthier's mouth just twisted further into a grimace as he urged the airship onwards.

Unfortunately, the ship they stole was not so well equipped as the Strahl to travel long distances, much less at high speeds, so they discovered when they made their planned stop at Nalbina that one of the glossar engines had burned out; a combination of overheating and reckless flying.

Fran also insisted upon their arrival that they stop long enough for her to exchange the few things of value on the ship for a new set of Viera armour, as she was _not_ traveling any further across Ivalice in an evening dress – in spite of Balthier ardently trying to convince her otherwise.

So while she hunted for new clothing, he took to arguing with the local mechanic over the price of the parts they needed.

"See here," he snapped to the Bangaa who ran the stall – he was not especially fond of their kind at present, given his state of affairs. "You are not dealing with some blundering fool. My damned _jacket_ is worth more than those parts, and both you _and_I are well aware of it."

The Bangaa regarded the garment for a while – it was slightly scuffed in places considering the night they had, but was barely a day old and of considerable quality.

"Alllll right!" he snarled. "I'll take'it!"

Balthier paused in confusion, then realized that the merchant was eyeing his coat suggestively.

"It was a figure of speech," he protested, but realized that as fond as he was of the article, it was going to have to go if they wanted to move on quickly. "Fine, fine," he sighed, removing the jacket reluctantly and passing it over to the merchant, who sniffed it a bit and then nodded at him.

"Take the lot," he crowed jubilantly. "Oh! This pretty piece's worth more than my entire stock. Oh hoh hoh," he growled, which was more or less how Bangaa laughed. "My young'un will _love_ this!"

Balthier grimaced and silently collect up the parts they needed, grumpily turning around in search of Fran. What he didn't expect was to find a sand-blasted Dalmascan face literally a few inches from him as he turned – their _noses_ practically touching they were so close.

"Dear gods!" he snapped as he lurched backwards and tried to get some space between him and the rusty-eyed boy. "Don't you know any manners in this..."

"Balthier?" a whine in a familiar accent questioned, and in an instant he recognised them; his stomach plummeted down through the sandy ground and deep into the rock-bed below. Whipping his head around he quickly spotted Fran in the crowd, shouldered the boy out of the way, and began to sprint towards her.

"Hey!" the voice belted after him. "IT _IS_ YOU!"

Fran was facing away when Balthier reached her, but he bounded straight past with just enough time to wrap a hand around her arm.

"Time to go!" he snapped hurriedly, pushing travellers left, right and centre, and sensing the urgency, Fran didn't hesitate to follow. However, much to their disadvantage there was only one exit to Nalbina fortress – its being a fortress somewhat necessitated it – and their trouble reached it before they did, alerting the guards at once.

So it seemed an entire _unit_ was mobilised by the exit to the desert by the time they got there. As they drew closer, Balthier swung his gun off his hip and cocked it, turning to Fran to give her a serious nod. He fired expertly through the crowd, which scattered and broke into screams, as his shot caught one of the guards blockading across the exit, breaking the defensive line.

He let go of Fran's arm so that he could reload, and then shot another guard away from the line, while Fran – who was unarmed, but in no way at a disadvantage – kicked a soldier running at them so hard he actually lifted from the ground, barrelling into two more men so that the three of them landed in an unsightly heap.

However, the sound of reinforcements charging through the panicking crowds behind them signalled an impending _end_ to any realistic opportunity to escape the situation. Balthier glanced back, saw too many men to try to fight, and then directed his next round toward an uninvolved Hume woman standing a little way off watching the spectacle unfold.

"Now!" he barked, dampening the chaotic noise of the fight as a few of the men realized what he was threatening. "Let's have a little quiet, shall we?" Slowly the rest of the guards ground to a standstill as they recognised the situations, and the noise dropped to a terrified murmur.

"_Now then," _he repeated ominously,_ "_we wouldn't want something _unfortunate_ to happen, so there'll be no sudden moves, understand?" he instructed, while woman realized what was going on and the colour drained from her face, fearful tears flooding her eyes. "I assure all of you that my shot is the fastest thing from here to Paramina, so if I were in _your_ position, I would be much inclined to let us go about our business," he threatened, and Fran – who had stilled with the rest of the guards – stood with her arms crossed confidently over her chest.

"Right. My partner and I are going to start walking very slowly towards the desert," explained Balthier, the way one might speak to a child, "and if any of you so much as _breathe _at us the wrong way, I'm afraid I shall have to do something I'll regret." He eyed the woman whose life he held in the balance apologetically, but his composure was no less determined.

"You ain't gonna pull the trigger, pirate," the leader of the guard said sternly. He knew that these two didn't have a reputation as killers, and a lowly trader woman was hardly a victim of their standard, not after the Emperor of Arcadia.

"Perhaps, but can you take that chance?" retorted Balthier. "I am the one holding this young lady hostage here, so I rather think _I'm_ the one in the best position to know whether or not I'd pull the trigger, don't you think? After you,_ Fran_," he directed, and she slowly started to pace towards the fortress exit, and the soldiers held their position. Balthier diverted his course a little, approaching the woman first and then extending his free hand to her. "Madam," he requested politely. "Your cooperation, if you would."

Too terrified to even comprehend doing anything else but obey orders, the woman gave Balthier her shaking hand, and allowed herself to be braced against him, the barrel of his rifle cold against her neck.

"But sir!" one of the men begged to his superior, as Balthier, Fran and their hostage backed slowly away from the group. "How can we let'em go free? Look what they've don' to our brothers!" he waved erratically at the felled men, who bled desperately into the hot sandy ground.

"Ahh, now isn't that one of life's little cruelties," Baltheir chuckled blackly. "Perhaps you should take to piracy?" he suggested, the sarcasm not lost on his audience.

The woman wasn't crying, but Balthier could feel her shaking against him as they backed further away from the guards – she'd no real need to be afraid, as he wouldn't shoot her regardless of circumstance. Murder simply wasn't his style, and moreover he lacked the grit to kill innocent civilians. However, the soldiers didn't know that, which was rather the point of a bluff.

He and Fran had almost cleared all the guards, their escape in sight, when a figure suddenly launched itself out from behind a wall and hit Balthier in the back of the head with a fencepost While the soldiers had been none the wiser, there was someone around who _did _know Balthier couldn't kill a woman in cold blood. The very Hume who had got him and Fran into that situation in the first place, as a matter of fact.

Vaan had hidden once he told the guards of Balthier and Fran's whereabouts, keeping away with an eye on the events with the idea that they'd be caught – earning him his reward from Ashe – but without his getting too involved.

However, after realising they were going to get away, he'd grabbed the nearest heavy object to hand and leapt into the open, swinging the post wildly and clobbering Balthier into an unconscious mess. The woman screamed, but he was handy enough with a blunt object not to hurt her, and she was sobbing in the arms of her family before Balthier even hit the ground; by which time time the guards were closing in on a _very_ uncooperative Fran.

When Balthier awoke, it was with a throbbing headache, shackles on his wrists, and Vaan gawking at him while he was bundled into an armed escort ship, alongside a Viera who looked like she'd done several people some very serious damage before they'd finally chained her to the prison-ship's wall.

"How does it feel to betray your own kind, Vaan?" he bellowed out the door, staring the boy dead in the eyes as two men shoved him into the dank cell of the tiny ship. "_Do_ let me know how that gilded cage works out for you!" Then the door slammed shut, confining them to dim light and stale air, as the small prison-ship hauled itself into the sky.

"We ought to have run them out of the skies when the chance was ours," remarked Fran ominously through the darkness.

"I see you didn't manage to rip off his face," Balthier commented brutally, knowing that after he'd fallen Fran would have resigned them to capture, but would've gone down kicking and screaming –though mostly kicking. "Shame."

"He took even me by surprise," she said despondently. "I ought to have heard him, I was careless."

"He knew I wouldn't shoot," he told her forgivingly. "It wasn't your prerogative to expect such things." Fran was silent, only the clinking of shackles punctuated the hum of the airship's engines.

"Oh, do not despair so, Fran," he added reassuringly. "I am sure _H__er Majesty _in Rabanastre will have an audience with us before we so much as _see_a courtier or a judge."

"That is _exactly_ what I fear," she replied darkly. "T'would not be a surprise to see her bring the executioner along in her company." Balthier chuckled as if he thought the very notion hilariously quaint.

"Worry not your pretty head about it," he soothed with an alarming tone of arrogance. "I shall'nt need more than five minutes to settle this whole thing."

Fran, somehow, did not seem at _all_ convinced.

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><p>End of Chapter 8<p>

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><p>The Review Button is down here you know!<p>

=(^.^)=

Okay below the kitty is the review button.


	9. Chapter 9

An onward the saga rolls. I'm just going to let it speak for itself.

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><p><em>Pirates of Ivalice – Chapter 9<em>

_A Pirate always keeps their cool._

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><p>"You killed and <em>ate <em>my birds!"

The Lady Ashe was as charming as she had ever been – which was, on the whole, not really that charming. And unfortunately for those that suffered it, Her Royal Highness's attitude had not become any less condescending in the time since she had taken the throne – even if it was harder to detect on this occasion under the initial layer of hatred and fury.

"_Princess_," Balthier cooed, still attempting to remain suave even from behind bars, and refusing as ever call her by her appropriate title. "That is a _terrible_ thing to suggest..." He paused, as if not expecting to be asked for an answer beyond this, and only continued once the palace jailer had glared at him for some time.

"... Fran killed them. I merely cooked them... _Vaan_ ate them, I recall." He looked over to Fran, who was sedentary in the corner of the cell. "He ate most of them, at least," he amended, returning to Ashe with a wolfish grin.

Fran chose not to contribute to the conversation, and was instead slowly carving a groove on the stone floor with the tip of her heel. Slow work, but she was making sure progress. She never took all that well to captivity as a whole, and her ride over to Rabanastre had been one of the more unpleasant experiences in her life.

"It was _you _who stole them in the first place," Ashe pointed out spitefully, and Balthier shrugged.

"That does sound like something we might do," he remarked very light-heartedly, and after noting that H.R.H. did _not_ seem to be calming down in the slightest, opted to take a less antagonistic position. "Now don't you think you are _overreacting_ a little?" he said delicately, approaching the front of the cell and gripping the bars, as he put his face up to them with a smile intended to charm. "They _were_ only birds." The use of the past tense stuck out glaringly.

"What they _were_ is not of significance, pirate," she spat hatefully. "You have thieved from me long enough."

"Well, that's _no_ way to thank the Hero who saved your Capital city," replied Balthier outlandishly. "Your _only _city, as a matter of fact."

"I granted you amnesty at the time of the Bahamut!" Ashe blazed. "You cannot keep using that card in this game, Balthier," she threatened, and the pirate merely sighed, as if he had only just realized this might be a little harder than he expected.

"I did not know you for a card player, princess," he said dryly, but Ashe was predictably less than amused; however, that didn't make it any less amus_ing_. "All _this_," he added while making a trite circling gesture around her, "–is all a rather obvious bluff, if I might say so myself."

He was sure there was a line in there somewhere about royal flushes too, considering the theme they were running with – the royal in question was flushing _now_, though, that was just the particular way Ashe's face coloured when she was on the verge of exploding. Fran sighed quietly from her corner, unheard by anyone inside or out of the cell; she would rather stay out of the dangerous game her partner seemed to be convinced would somehow award them their freedom.

"Enough, Balthier!" Ashe finally snapped.

"Oh now, what a shame," he purred. "I was having such fun." Resisting the urge to point out to Ashe that she was going red in the face, even _if_ he thought it was highly entertaining, he reached an arm through the cell bars and casually crossed it over his body, as if ignoring them could somehow make them cease to exist.

"Do you _know_ the penalty for piracy in Dalmasca?" she questioned, refusing to let him derail the conversation any further, even if it meant carrying it out one-sidedly.

"Why would I?" he replied glibly. "No need to know the punishments if you are never caught." The irony of his present situation was not lost on him, but he told himself that the present was just an incredibly unfortunate _one-off _incident that ought not be counted – the exception that _proved_ the rule, if anything.

"Then it is time you learned. 'Tis hanging," she hissed with an unsettling amount of blood lust, and Balthier started to get the vaguest inclination that perhaps she might be _genuinely _cross at him.

"Princess, don't you think we should just... now... wait a minute, who is _he_?" he demanded worriedly, as a large, burly man in a hood entered the palace cells and began sizing up Balthier with what appeared to be a measuring stick.

"Why, your hangman, of course." The amount of pleasure with which the Queen of Dalmasca spoke would have shamed even Vayne Solidor, but Balthier was unfortunately too absorbed in his own predicament to have time to make comparisons.

"What?" he snapped. "You cannot be _serious!_" he rushed, his eyes never moving from the man, who – being an executioner, looked _very _serious as a occupational feature. Balthier then glanced back at Ashe, who wore the same murderous glare that raised the question of whether or not the power was beginning to get to her.

"...You can't HANG me!" he yelled at last, snatching his arm back inside the cell as if he risked losing it.

"You are much mistaken," replied Ashe smugly. "I can, and I _will_, Balthier_. _My lands and skies will be much safer with your boots at the hangman's bed."

"But-!" he protested, until Fran was suddenly on her feet and by the cell bars.

"And what do you propose to make of me?" she interrupted stonily, looking straight down her nose at Ashe.

"Of course, I will respect the Viera law," the monarch replied coolly; even outside of Golmore, the Viera maintained that they were still ruled by the Wood, therefore only responsible to their own kind. Granting an entire race diplomatic immunity seemed rash, but Viera on the whole committed so few crimes that it was widely accepted. It certainly made Fran's life as one of the few, if only, professional Viera criminal a great deal easier.

"Well as _glad_ as I am to hear that – my _own_ impending death aside," Balthier interjected. "You and I still have a number of problems, Fran, the least of which being _him_," he said with a jerk of his head towards the hangman, who seemed to take a little offence at the inference; although he did not stop attempting to guess the approximate width of Balthier's neck.

"But what can be done?" said Fran, turning to him and making a gesture of indifference.

"_Something_," he hissed with increasing desperation. "Personally I'd be rather upset to meet my end at the hand of a_ capricious woman holding a petty grudge!" _he finished loudly, making sure that Ashe heard each and every word.

"How _dare_-" Ashe began, but in an instant he whipped up a hand in a silencing motion towards her.

"Was I addressing _you_, Princess?" he said rudely, and she was shocked speechless for a moment; she'd forgotten what it was like to have someone treat her with no respect for her position – no respect at all, as a matter of fact.

"... You will have _exactly_ what you deserve, Balthier," she fired back ominously; she was so visibly furious that Balthier made a special note of the achievement. She was about to turn on her tail and leave, but before she could move far Balthier lurched towards the front of the cell, spearing his arm between the bars and grabbing her by the wrist.

"I would wonder," he said in a hushed tone, "exactly what part of the royal ascent taught you such ingratitude?" He did not grip her arm tight enough for it to be painful, but it was strong enough that she wouldn't pull away easily. "I think it rather unbecoming for you to forget exactly how much we went through for _your _sake not three years ago," he reminded her, and she tore herself out of his grip as if his touch could inflict poison on her.

"_My _ingratitude?" she snarled.

"Yes," shot Balthier. "T'was not for Fran's or _my_ sake nor profit that we ferried you across the nation, fought by your side, and then almost killed ourselves to save Rabanastre, _your _city." Fran thought it was of interest that he did not mention the loss of his father – not that there had been much to lose – in this verbal onslaught on the Queen, in spite of how much it clearly did matter to him. She suspected that perhaps it mattered _too_ much.

"I paid my gratitude to you both already!" Ashe retorted, and Balthier laughed, but with an expression that looked closer to physical revulsion than good humour.

"Oh you did? I do not ask for a _free reign _in your country, Ashe – it is your incompetent armies that give me _that_ – but I hardly feel the warmth of gratitude when your hangman is sizing up my neck." As he spoke, Fran slowly approached him and lightly tapped her fingers on his shoulder, but he was too worked up to take notice of it.

"You have committed crime after crime in Dalmas-" Ashe began.

"I am a _pirate_," he countered, "so that is rather the nature of the game. Even Larsa, whose brother we collectively _slaughtered_ allows a modest amnesty – one that very kindly involves not _hanging_ me!" As he paused, slightly breathless, and regained his composure, Fran tapped him again on the shoulder; this time, he noticed.

"If _I_ might speak," she intervened. "It appears to me that no progress will be made here. Perhaps, Ashe, you might leave us a moment, so we may spend some time alone before our fate approaches." Balthier's look of confidence in his partner was slowly weakening, while Ashe – struggling for words – eventually stormed away.

"Pardon my alarm, Fran," remarked Balthier once she was out of earshot, "but I feel you are being awfully blasé about my upcoming demise." The Viera did not reply, instead regarding him with an expression he should have recognised earlier. "Oh... _oh,_" he hummed curiously. "Now, what is that little twinkle in your eye?"

"_I_ can demand my own release to Golmore immediately," she explained. "Once outside the Palace, I will send a message with the greatest haste to Arcadia."

"Arcadia? To whom?... _Larsa?" _he said quizzically. "Now, he may not have stolen our airship nor imprisoned us, but I doubt he will rescue me from a perfectly legal hangman's..." he broke off as he realized exactly what Fran was planning. "_Of_ _course!_" he gaped, slapping a hand to his forehead, "_The Will!_"

He started rummaging around at once in his packs, and at last pulled out a roll of papers, thumbing through them to check for the stamped and sealed will of Vayne.

"He will not hesitate to intervene, if it is made clear the will would be destroyed with you should you befall any _misfortune _in this city," Fran explained self-satisfactorily.

"Why, I'd bet my life on it, were it not already on the line," he gushed, heaving a huge sigh of relief – he'd thought for a moment there that he might have really been in trouble. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "he cannot just charge in and rip me from her hands without a... I would need to..." he trailed off, only to burst into laughter moments later.

"What now?" Fran probed, unsure if the panic was destabilising her partner's state of mind, or if he was always this unhinged.

"Well, Fran," he began enthusiastically. "My case is surely the same as yours. Laws of extradition apply all across Ivalice, you know." Fran's eyes narrowed slightly.

"I am not sure I follow."

"Oh, you will," he replied with an electrifying sense of foreboding. "Let us get our _gracious_ jailer back before she stomps too far away. OH ASHE!" he bellowed down the hall. "GUARDS! PRINCESS!" he continued to holler, and it wasn't long before a guard came tearing down the hall furiously with Ashe not too far behind.

"What in Ivalice is it now?" she snarled.

"Fran would like to go home," he said courteously, making a great effort not to let the look of smug triumph work its way onto his face. "And as a matter of fact – so would I." His smile cracked, and he gave Ashe a boisterous look.

"Fran may go as soon as another Viera can come to be her escort," Ashe replied stiffly. "_You _do not have a home to go to." Balthier put his hand over his chest in a show of being slighted.

"How your sharp words wound me," he replied dramatically. "Did you not know I am a documented citizen of Arcadia?" His grin bubbled up again and his teeth flashed for a moment in unquestioning enjoyment. "I should think my demands are fairly clear, _Your Highness _– I want extradition," he proclaimed. "As an Arcadian, I have the right to trial in my own nation."

"You..." Ashe fumbled for words. "You... you are not Arcadian – you don't _have_ a nation," she insisted. " Sky pirates have forfi..." Balthier quirked his head so suddenly to the side that she broke away in the middle of her sentence again, realizing that there was another trick coming from up his sleeve.

"A what?" he echoed mischievously. "I am no sky pirate, _Milady,_" he taunted, and Ashe laughed nervously.

"What nonsense do you spout now? You are Balthie-..." She seemed wholly unable to finish anything she said to him again, as no sooner had she started than he stopped her again.

"Who, may I ask, is that?" he queried innocently. "_I _am Ffamran Mied Bunansa. Never heard of this other fellow."

Ashe didn't look like she knew whether to laugh, scream or pinch herself and wake up. "What?" she murmured.

"_My_ name is not Balthier," he explained patiently. "_Is_ not, _was_ not, and _will_ not be for that matter," he added, swaying his forefinger back and forth with each new tense. "_I_ am a former judge who is recently returned to Arcades – not to mention a _budding socialite – _by the name Ffamran. I'm an Arcadian citizen_ through and through_. In fact, Your Highness, I could give you ten names who would attest to it this very moment."

He crossed his arms over his chest proudly – the discomfort of having to pull out his past life again was trifling compared to the discomfort of a rope around his neck, and he'd spent more than enough time imitating his alternative self of recent. He suspected he was as at peace with it now as he ever would be.

"Why not send word of him to Emperor Solidor?" Fran challenged. "Even if the story _were _to be false, then it would it not be proven so by the Larsa's dismissal of it?"

"Exactly," Balthier – or 'Ffamran' – agreed. "Not to mention, the last thing a fragile nation like Dalmasca wants to do is upset Arcadia by wrongly executing one of their own."

"You are _no_ such thing!" Ashe argued tensely. "Do not try to _lie_ to me when I know already what- I mean _who,_ you are, Balthier."

"A 'sky pirate' so you tell me," he jested, making sweeping quotation gestures with his fingers. "Tell me one more thing. If I_ am_ this pirate fellow Balthier Bunansa, then _where_ is my airship?"

"Your... you mean the Strahl?" Ashe stammered; in her haste to capture Balthier she had no word of the Strahl, but she could not imagine he had been captured _without _his airshipl; however, looking to her jailer, he shook his head. "What do you mean?" she demanded.

"Well, I presume this _Strahl_ still flies in Ivalice," Balthier repeated wearily – having to spell it out for her was a great waste of his patience when his life was hanging in the balance. "I certainly don't have it on my person, and if tis' not with _me_, and not with _you_, one would assume it still flies Ivalicean skies – no? This _is_ your 'Balthier Bunansa's' ship, is it not?" he insisted, resorting again to the quotation mark gestures.

"Of... course it is," she reluctantly agreed, furrowing her brow a little with mistrust.

"Exactly," he triumphed. "So pirate and ship go together. Now, if he is in _his _ship – which we have already established is not here – then he cannot be here either, therefore _I_ could not possibly be myself – do you follow? I must be someone else, if I and my ship are some_where_ else."

Ashe wondered if she had this headache when she came in, and for a while no one spoke; Balthier silently revelled in his greatest piece of wordwork all week.

"I would deign to be released as soon as an escort may be found for me, Your Highness," Fran announced calmly, breaking the silence at last.

"Yes, and I'd also recommend you communicate with my gracious Emperor Solidor, as I would very much like to go home," Balthier added contritely.

The only wild factor in their plan, he'd worked out, was if Fran's message to Larsa arrived after Ashe's, as then the boy might not be inclined to save him from the noose. The chances of that were fairly slim, though, as he probably already knew by now that the will was missing, and might easily assume that he and Fran were the culprits. Additionally, even if Fran's explanatory message _did _arrive after Ashe's then he would have to go back on anything he said in order to protect the will from destruction, so really they were protected on all sides.

"I... I..." Ashe was, unusually enough, totally speechless. This was largely down to her inability to fully wrap her head around what had just happened.

She was hardly going to take orders from _Balthier _of all people, nor his partner in crime, but she could not for the life of her fathom a rational reason to refuse their request. It was even within their rights as prisoners, because she knew that Balthier spoke of his true past. In the end, as she could not imagine any situation in which Larsa would _dare _to defy a Queen to protect a pirate, she decided concede to her prisoners' suggestions.

"I will be back," she said threateningly, and Balthier just smiled.

"Oh, I do not doubt it, _princess,_" he replied with a touch of bravado. "I greatly look forward to seeing you without this ugly set of bars between us." As if to rub salt into the wound, he winked at her.

Ashe bit her lip; it was evident she wanted to snap some equally witty or condescending response at him, but appeared unable to find the words to do so. She had to resort in the end to simply storming out for the second time. Balthier was quiet for a while as the sound of Ashe's footsteps on the stone floor got farther and farther away, until eventually they vanished altogether.

"You know," he remarked, stepping away from the front of the cell and then taking a seat close to Fran, leaning back against the cell wall, "she is really so phenomenally easy to tease that I find it quite impossible to refrain. I think it rather hampers our chances at maintaining an amiable acquaintance."

"I did notice," replied Fran wryly. "You take many risks infuriating her so."

"Oh, do not fret," he tutted. "I have dodged the bullet on this one, thanks to your enlightened assistance. I knew I kept you around for something other than looking good," he added glibly. "Or was it making _me _look good? I never keep track."

"Tis both," she answered concisely. "And I remind you, were it not for the Will you'd face the hangman at dawn tomorrow," she pointed out seriously. If he needed a _more_ effective wake-up call to the urgency of their dire fortunes than this, she suspected he wouldn't live long enough to take heed of the lesson.

"Oh Fran, please do not be so macabre," he protested. "No sense expending thought on what _might _have happened – I'd not be able to move for the regret." He yawned, bringing a brightly-ringed hand up to his mouth and then sinking his forehead down to rest upon it. The first ran straight into a second, and she watched his shoulders slumping.

"All this trouble has made me really quite weary," he announcing wanly, shifting closer to her with a hopeful air. "Would you mind awfully if I took forty winks before some cruel hand of fate in high heels takes you away from me?" his tone wished to be light, but under his exhaustion, and the dark circumstances of their being imprisoned, the jollity of the words didn't fly far in the damp, mossy-smelling air.

"Go ahead," she consented.

"Ah, much appreciated," he replied affectionately, letting his head droop down to rest against her shoulder with a sigh, as his eyes quickly fluttered closed. There were no furnishings in their cell, so in absence of a sympathetic companion to nap against, he would have had to brave the cruel and unforgiving walls or floor to gain any rest.

Fran allowed herself to relax awhlie, but did not sleep or let her thoughts stray too far from what they had to do in order to fix this mess. Balthier's weariness indicated far more to her than his behaviour would let show; stress tired him, as most people, so in spite of his cheery and carefree attitude, she knew he was truly just as troubled as she by the situation. It was also no doubt a factor in his begging her shoulder to rest upon, as the comfort offered was deeper than physical, though he'd never admit to it.

He did not have too long to enjoy the rest, though, as her escort – a Viera she did not know, newly-gone from the Wood by her judgement – arrived within the hour. She was _meant _to be taken back to the Wood so that she could be held accountable for her crimes there – that was the agreement Viera had made with the outside world, but only Viera who had also left the Wood were ever available to be the escorts, and usual proceedings had them go with the accused as far as the city limits and then quickly part ways.

If there _were _any instance of a violent or extreme crime for which even the escort felt wrong was done, then the accused might be taken back to the Wood for judgement, but it was unheard of in Fran's own lifetime at least. Their own morality was the strictest law that her kind paid heed to, which put her at a great advantage, considering how many of her morals had been bent, warped beyond recognition, or totally abandoned as a consequence of her choice of lifestyle.

"Balthier," she said, gently jostling him awake – as a parent might rouse a napping child – while the Viera escort, to whom she would pay a small gratuity to for the service, stood outside the cell impatiently while the guard fumbled with the keys.

He sluggishly raised a hand as he woke and pressed it to his face. "Yes dear?" he murmured, rubbing his jaw and realizing that he rather needed a shave.

"I must go," she explained, standing slowly and flexing her legs.

"Mmn," he made a low, affirmative sound as he pulled up his knees and rested his elbows on them, still half-asleep as he sighed and yawned into a fist. "I should hope I will see you later, then," he mumbled blurrily, and she made a note of the serious chord in his voice; there was still at least a shred of doubt in his mind.

However, when she looked back at him from the other side of the bars one last time before leaving, he smiled.

"You'll know where to find me when the time comes," he said smoothly, and after a quick glance at her new companion whistled a flirtatious bird-call at her. "Bring your friend," he teased, and the Viera turned to Fran with a confused, critical look, and they silently left the prisons.

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><p><em>End of Chapter 9<em>

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><p>This chapter has some of my favourite Balthier-lines of this entire fic, I swear. This is a scene I imagined right from the <em>very <em>start of this story.

Reviews are wrapped up and given to orphans on christmas, who largely don't understand them and wish they'd been given a jar of sweets instead.


	10. Chapter 10

This chapter is dedicated to Meatloaf because I don't know why.

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><p><em>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 10<em>

_A pirate is always honest about their dishonesty.  
><em>

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><p>Queen Ashelia of Dalmasca had convinced herself that she definitely <em>wasn't<em> doing what those despicable sky pirates Balthier and Fran had told her to – she was just proving them wrong._.._ in a way that just so happened to coincide with their requests. Sending a message to Larsa was the quickest way to prove that Balthier was lying – and she couldn't possibly conceive a scenario in which the Emperor would _dare _to cross her at the cost of defending a pirate preaching a transparent lie.

So she begrudgingly composed a message for Larsa, sending it through the Moogle-mail system – on a private diplomatic service, so it would only take a few hours to reach Arcadia. She worded the message as disdainfully as possible, careful to only name the suspect as 'Fframran Bunansa', and briefly described his 'trifling' request for extradition, then apologised for wasting Larsa's time as sarcastically as she could fashion in handwriting.

Having sealed and delivered the correspondence to the postal moogle, she settled down in her private chambers to relax and restore her fraught nerves. Balthier had an incredibly frustrating habit of making her lose all composure, seemingly at any instant of his choosing.

She knew that they could get along well, as they had done upon a great many occasions, and the shock of his and Fran's alleged deaths had moved her deeply for a time. However, now it seemed their world views seemed to conflict too drastically to ensure they ever got along for long. Her cosmology didn't happen to feature _him _as the center of the universe.

The moogling was the fastest way to communicate across long distances in Ivalice, but it was still fairly time-consuming because there was a limit to the distance that the moogles could move within their teleportation network. For that reason, when she had sent the message, she hadn't expected to receive a reply until the following morning, especially considering the circumstances and lateness of sending.

So, to be disturbed as she prepared for bed by a frantically scrawled reply from the young Emperor – in which he might as well have _order__ed _her not to harm so much as a hair on '_Dear Ffamran's_' head – was a considerable shock.

Even more stunning was Larsa's warning to expect 'his men' in the skies above Rabanastre as fast as they could fly. The Arcadian military had not been in Dalmascan lands since independence had been restored, largely as a sign of respect for the nation. To see the carelessness with which Larsa announced their return was a bitter pill to swallow; it added insult to injury, too, that the actions were entirely provoked by some scheme of Balthier and Fran's. If she didn't risk destroying the fragile balance of power then and there, Ashe would have hung him _herself._

It was not a particularly proud moment for Dalmasca when the sky above her capital slowly filled with Arcadian airships, bringing back painful memories of their occupation by the Empire – a feeling that was only exacerbated by the units of fully-armed Imperials that disembarked directly into the Palace grounds without even requesting access or permission.

As much as Ashe _dearly_ wanted to strike the fleet down and send the men running from Dalmasca with their tails between their legs, she knew better. Granting her country independence was one of Larsa's first acts in power, a hugely significant gesture towards the Dalmascan state, and that alone had made her greatly indebted to him.

Crossing Arcadia would be likely to cause the complete breakdown of their relations, paramount to declaring themselves enemies once more, and she knew all too well that her fragile nation could not survive against the force of the Empire, nor resist Rozzarian influence without Arcadian backing.

It did not help that the legal grounds upon which the pirate's demands were made were solid; documents soon followed through the moogling proving the existence of one 'Ffamran Mied Bunansa, son of Cildolphus...' along with all the paperwork required for extradition. Ashe was therefore forced to comply with the Empire's wishes, or risk destroying everything she'd fought for not four years ago.

The tinkling sound of chains and shackles – shackles she'd once worn herself beside him – alerted her to the arrival of Balthier to the courtyard where the prison transport had landed.

"Princess," he greeted, completely ignoring the heavily armed guards that surrounded him; Ashe found that she could not bear to look at him, and suffer the smirk she knew he'd be proudly toting.

"Do not speak to me," she said haughtily. "You are still a prisoner."

"Well, we'll see about that," he replied with an almost intolerably smug tone. She did not reply, so they waited in frosty silence as the armed escorts organized the handover of 'prisoner Bunansa'.

"Oh, Ashe," he sighed dramatically, and she grit her jaw tightly at the soft, friendly way in which he called her by name.

"Your _Highness_," she corrected sourly.

"Ashe," he insisted. "When did it come to this?"

"T'was not _my _doing," she said bitterly. "You cast the first stone, Balthier."

"Oh, but I'd swear that _you_ started it," he countered playfully.

"_I _started it?" she snapped, lifting a hand at men, to halt their attempts to move him on. "One moment," she ordered to the grumpy-looking Imperials. "You shall have your prisoner in the end, so you _will_ allow us a minute."

The ferocity and force of the royal's cast-iron personality – strong enough to rule a nation even as a woman, and famous across all Ivalice for her temper – easily cowed the guards into obedience. They too understood the great insult to the Dalmascan nation being committed, and none would dare to invite the notorious Queen's wrath upon them. Balthier did not challenge her accusation, but lifted an eyebrow in question as he waited for her elaboration.

"Was it not _my _wedding ring that was returned, _late_, and with half the weight of it shaved off? T'was barely the same ring!" she exploded at last.

"It was quite _exactly_ as ugly as it was when I first gained possession of it," he replied cheekily. "The weight, I'm sure, was too great for your delicate hand anyway." He phrased it in such a way as to sound as if it were only out of consideration for her, and not the result of an insatiable and amoral greed, not to mention disrespect for the dead.

"Excuses, Balthier," she glowered. "Mere _excuses_, and I'll not have them."

"I better keep them for those who will then." He looked across, holding her gaze with the seriousness that he did not often show. "Instead, I offer you my apologies, Ashe," he announced suddenly.

Ffor everything in her that knew he was not to be trusted as far as he could be _thrown_, he sounded sincere. Which was quite possibly the most infuriating thing of all.

"I am sorry," he professed again, and Ashe found herself breaking eye contact, staring at the airships loitering impatiently in the distance. She nodded almost indistinguishably, then made an awkward shooing gesture to the men, who resumed leading Balthier over to his secure transport ship.

"I promise, the _next_ wedding ring I give you will be much nicer," he added courteously, and it was only when he'd flashed her a grin over his shoulder, that she realized exactly what he'd said.

Suddenly, the respectful silence of her men became loaded with implication – the rumours concerning her alleged 'affair' with the '_pirate-hero who saved Rabanastre_' were already outrageously popular, and she did _not_ need Balthier to actively encourage them. She felt her face burning, as again he flipped her temper over like it was a coin he tossed for fun. Balthier winked at her one last time before he was 'escorted' onto the prison ship.

* * *

><p>Balthier realized that it had been a bit much to expect any better treatment from Larsa in terms of his captivity, so he was sorely disappointed by the transfer to Arcades. The journey was long, and all the guards rude, if not outright <em>cruel <em>to him. It was a miracle he managed to sleep away _any_ of the wretched journey.

The only consolation was knowing that he wasn't going to find himself on the wrong side of a death sentence come the morning; then again, he wasn't exactly sure he'd be much better off, because Larsa wouldn't just let him walk free.

Vayne's will was his only bargaining chip, so he was going to have to push for it hard if he wanted his freedom. He didn't particularly care about losing it any more; he and Fran still had no idea what the damn thing did, and trading it for his freedom wasn't the worst price fetched for a piece of useless paper.

He still remained cautious as they arrived at Arcades – in this city it never paid to be anything less than meticulous in the way you conducted your affairs. If 'meticulous' meant being scheming, suspicious, and a compulsive cheat.

He was escorted upon arrival to a cell that was despairingly similar to the one he just left, but a_t least_ it was not rife with guards, because Larsa came to meet him almost immediately and dismissed the few jailers, so that they might speak privately.

"Cunning, Balthier," was the teenager's cold greeting. "I perhaps underestimated your honesty."

"The trick is to trust in my dishonesty," he replied cursively. "You see, a dishonest man you may always trust to be so. It is the honest ones you want to watch out for." Larsa was not the least bit ruffled, and simply raised his eyebrows a little, saying nothing.

"You _did _say to us that we may take anything we wanted," Balthier pointed out. "We didn't even break the terms of our agreement."

"So I did," replied Larsa unenthusiastically, "and now I will have to rescind on my offer. You may have anything _but _the will of my dear, late brother, which I would very much like you to return to me in payment for removing your neck from a Dalmascan noose."

"Now, now," said Balthier with a tut. "That seems like an unfair trade to me. What do you propose I do with myself in this uncompelling hole in the wall? Take up needlework?"

Larsa sighed and unfolded his hands from behind his back, bringing them together again to fiddle with his fingers uncomfortably.

"Balthier, you should know that I cannot just _hand _you your freedom," he said quietly. "I must adhere to the laws of Ivalice. As the head of state, I could never be seen to set free a notorious criminal on the basis of a private deal, especially after the trouble that was made moving you from Dalmasca. Both Ashe and myself expect adherence to the laws which we all try to uphold as the figureheads of Ivalice." Balthier was silent for some time.

"You could have just said 'no'," he said sharply, and Larsa actually bowed his eyes.

"I am in a difficult position," he explained humbly, showing his age for once in his awkwardness.

"_You _are in a difficult position!" Balthier satirised. "I do _beg _your pardon. I am only facing rotting in this miserable cell indefinitely, and rather forgot _your _poor predicament."

"There is no need for that," Larsa said stonily, and Balthier just looked at him with mild contempt.

"Well, that's _that_, it would appear," he eventually announced, with a defeated sigh, and began to rummage around in one of his packs idly. "I suppose there's not much to be done about it."

Larsa's eyes brightened as he saw a rolled sheet of parchment being carefully withdrawn, and he felt his pulse start to race. "I will do everything within my power to make your situation more comfortable..." he promised, eyeing the will greedily.

"You know, a little warmth in here would be nice," Balthier remarked, pulling out a box of matches and quickly striking one against the floor. As the flame flared and quivered, he casually passed the very ends of the rolled parchment through it; the dry paper caught quickly, aided by Balthier's blowing on it encouragingly.

"That's better," he said brightly, rolling the parchment from side to side as the flames spread ever-faster, and Larsa fumbled manically with the keys to the cell door.

He had anticipated that Balthier might have attempted something like this when he learned he wouldn't be released, but hadn't thought that he would do it so _suddenly – _he'd just set the only bargaining chip he had on fire without the slightest warning, and even so appeared completely at ease.

The young Emperor threw open the cell door and rushed towards him, thinking that surely Balthier _knew _if he destroyed the will then any negotiation power between them was lost for good; but still, he didn't seem to care one bit.

The pirate carelessly tossed the burning paper over his shoulder, into the far corner of the cell, and then as Larsa came close, suddenly leapt around him and dashed out of the open cell door. By the time Larsa had thrown himself to the floor and put out the flames, Balthier was already at the far end of the cell-block. He threw open the door with the full weight of his body, throwing his shoulder against it and sending the guard stood outside flying.

There was only one more guard on duty, who swung his metal fist at Balthier when he realized what was happening, but the pirate dodged swiftly, grabbed the man by the grill of his helmet and then pulled him down with great force onto his knee, knocking him out on the inside of his own armour, and quickly throwing him aside.

Back inside the cell, Larsa with great delicacy unfurled the crisp roll of paper, only to read the words '_Aria for a Sky Pira-' _trailing into black ash. He stopped dead for a moment, struck with the magnitude of his error, and then crushed it in his hands and bounded to his feet, rushing down the hallway and bursting out the door, hitting the fallen man behind it a second time.

The young Emperor realized with a heavy heart that he'd let his emotions rule over his reasoning, and that mistake alone was responsible for Balthier's escape – but how could he _be_ calm, he argued against himself, when he'd been so close to unlocking his brother's secrets. Of possibly learning _why _he had to die, why a once-strong mind had shattered so disastrously. Only then he would be able to put to rest the ghost of the man he'd respected above all others; a ghost that still tormented him with unknowing and misunderstanding.

He looked around once he was through the door, but the pirate was nowhere to be seen.

"Which way did he go?" he barked at his sluggish guards, who stared up at him as if they didn't have a clue who he was – likely the result of joint concussions. "The pirate!" Larsa snapped. "Which way?"

The two men looked at each other, and then before he lost his composure any more Larsa turned away, running for the quickest route to the palace barracks. Balthier might have got out of his cell, but he _wouldn't_ escape the palace. Not this palace.

However, Balthier knew better than to try and make a run for the exit now – that was exactly where they _expected_ him to go, and he wouldn't be caught as easily as that.

So, after he'd ran far enough from the dungeons, he started throwing open every door he came across in search of a place to hide. He appeared to be in a wing full of guest rooms and chambers for the palace's courtiers and bureaucratic officials – most doors revealed bedrooms filled with various confused members of the Arcades elite or Imperial court.

Cursing under his breath when he heard the sounds of tin-can Imperial armour echo faintly down the halls, Balthier was unable to tell which direction they were coming from. He pleaded for just _one_ unlocked and empty room in the entire wing; he needed to hide or he might as well hang for all the prospects he had.

However, he was close to the end of the corridor, and felt his hopes starting to slip through his fingers like a handful of the sandsea, but when he shoved open one of the last doors, a girlish yelp came from within.

"Gawd! Didn't anyone ever teach you to _knock?" _a disgruntled, familiarly-accented voice called out, and for a moment Balthier froze with shock, blinking several times just to make sure he hadn't hallucinated the occupant out of desperation. The guest seemed to be experiencing the very same thing, as there was a thick silence of disbelief before she spoke again. "..._ Balthier?_"

Without a word he jumped inside and slammed the door shut behind him, sliding the latch closed and bounding over to Penelo with an exalted look on his face.

"Thank the gods!" he gasped, grabbing her by the shoulders firmly. "Penelo, I..." he broke off the moment he realized that it was _her_ partner that had put him in this mess in the first place, and suddenly became incredibly cross. "Do you have ANY idea what your fool partner has done?" he thundered, shaking her irately.

"Whoah! Balthier, slow down," said Penelo, trying to push his arms away, only for him to replace them a moment later. "What the heck is going on?"

The characteristic clattering sound of Imperial soldiers sounded loudly in the hall outside the door, and Balthier became visibly more frantic; it was rare, Penelo noted, to see him this panicked. Whatever was going on, it had to be serious.

"Ah, no time to explain," he rushed breathlessly; sweat beaded his forehead, and he panted lightly between sentences, so she realized that he must have been running pretty hard before he found her. "I must hide." There was a knock at the door.

"What's this about?" she demanded. "Why are you even here? What did you _do?"_

"What did _Vaan _do more like," he snapped, and the knocking only grew louder.

_"Hey! Open up!" _a voice bellowed through the wood. "_Emperor's orders!"_

"Don't open it," Balthier said, gripping her tighter still. "I promise that I will explain all in time." The sound of something hitting the door forcefully rung in their ears, and the wood began to creak. "I am in a bind here, I _implore_ you, Penelo," he as close to begged as he'd ever get, while the latch stared to split away from the door.

She didn't know Balthier that well – not like Fran did, for sure – but she knew him well enough to see that he was at his wit's end, and that was _rare_. This is the man who made ridiculous comments while he was in a crashing airship, had a sword to his neck, or confronting a furious Viera with a notorious violent streak.

There wasn't long to think about it either, so Penelo made a gut decision – based it on what _she'd _hope for if the roles were reversed between them, because she'd damn-well want all the help she could get if she was being chased through this palace by a bunch of incensed Imperials.

"Okay, okay," she said quickly. "I'll help." As the door cracked again, Balthier did not release her and jump under the bed or into another hiding place, as she'd been expecting. Instead, he pulled her closer, _much_ closer, and moved until they were only a few paces away from the unmade bed.

With two quick steps, he pushed her back until she was almost tripping over the bedframe, his own back to the door, and she felt his hand move up and press against her neck. The door finally smashed open, but before she was able to look over his shoulder at it, Balthier unhesitatingly pressed his mouth against hers.

Her first instinct was to shriek, but he held her firmly enough that any and all sound was muffled – he'd probably realized that would be her first reaction and prepared for it, because he barely even gave her a chance to _breathe. _

Penelo's second instinct was to push herself off him and _then _scream, but when she heard the guards making a combination of sniggering sounds and lecherous growls, she suddenly realized what he was doing. It was a trick so cliché that she hadn't thought anyone in their right mind would think of trying it, but then she remembered it was Balthier she was dealing with, and it made a great deal more sense.

For a split second she considered whether or not she should play along, but recalled that she _had_ agreed to help him, and wasn't going to let him down for the sake of a little kiss and play-romance. If she helped him out, she knew he'd repay the favour in the end. Although she couldn't think of any life-or-death situations in which she 'd desperately need a kiss, should such a thing ever come to pass she didn't doubt Balthier would oblige her. Hell, he'd oblige her even if she _didn't _desperately require it. He took any opportunity he could get.

So she started to follow his lead and threw her arms around him, trying to appear as passionate as possible without bursting out in a fit of giggles. This was actually fairly difficult – especially when _he _started grinning against her because he found her over-acting just as hilarious as she did.

Not that it stopped him actively, and rather _ambitiously _kissing her; he was a show-off in every other capacity, so it would have been a glaring incongruity if he wasn't in this one too. She was quite aware of the way she was letting him carry on, but she'd be a fool if she had expected any less. Not to mention that there were worse people in Ivalice to have an impromptu kiss with, all things considered.

"Ahem!" the foremost Imperial said brashly. "Excuse me, Ma'am."

Penelo tore herself away from Balthier, who seemed slightly disappointed because he was enjoying himself, and shot the Imperials a filthy look.

"What the heck do you think you're doing?" she snapped with an appearance of surprised anger. "Does the word 'privacy' mean _nothing _to you Arcadians?"

"Uh, well ma'am, you see, there is a dangerous criminal who has escaped from the dungeon," the man explained uncomfortably. "We have to check all of the rooms – he is hiding somewhere in the palace... so..."

"Oh, you think I do this with _every _dangerous escaped criminal who just comes _running _into my room?" she questioned crossly, making it look like she was horribly offended, while Balthier smirked and resisted commenting on the irony of the accusation.

"N-No, ma'am!" the man spluttered; however, after a whisper from one of the other men, his awkwardness quickly turned to anger. "Well see here... you didn't unlock the door so we had a right to be suspicious!" he accused. "Just _who _are you in the first place?"

"I..." Penelo squeaked, caught off-guard; Balthier felt her body tense suddenly with panic, and without missing a beat he whirled around to face the assembly.

"How can you _ask_ such a thing?" he shot aloofly, regarding the soldiers with a sharp, critical eye. "Do you rea_lly_ mean to say you don't recognise the Queen of Dalmasca?"

* * *

><p><em>End of Chapter 10<em>

* * *

><p>Ohhohohoh, oh yes he DID.<p> 


	11. Chapter 11

The character of Fenris in Dragon Age 2, who is voiced by Gideon Emery with Balthier's EXACT voice and OH GOD HE'S A ROMANCE OPTION AND MAKEOUTS AND THE VOICE AND DHFKSB caused the publication of _this _newest chapter of 'Balthier gets himself hilariously in and out of trouble', otherwise known as Pirates of Ivalice

* * *

><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 11<em><br>_

_A pirate never backs out on a lie. Ever. _

* * *

><p>The four or five Imperial guards stared at Penelo with nothing short of disbelief, while Penelo stared at Balthier with genuine concern for his state of mind. He'd just claimed she was the Queen of Dalmasca, and hadn't so much as <em>twitched<em>.

The pirates just looked at her and raised an eyebrow. They both knew she had two choices, back him up, or rat him out, and Vaan had fulfilled their partnership's share of ratting for a good while.

So Penelo drew herself up to her full, not very substantial height, and stepped forwards to look at the men. She thought of Ashe, and tried to mimic her regal atmosphere, like she was always meant to be in charge of whatever she was doing. Maybe she just looked snooty, but that would probably do.

"It is true... I am Ashelia B'nargain Dalmasca," she announced in as posh a Dalmascan accent as she was capable of, and to the guards' Arcadian ears it probably didn't sound too suspect. "That door was locked for a _reason._"

"Whu... who... _what_ are you doing here, then... Your Majesty...?" the leader of the Imperial watch questioned sceptically. If the Queen of Dalmasca was staying in the palace, it would be highly unusual for the soldiers not to hear of it. Penelo didn't know what to say, so huffed irritably and then looked at Balthier with a bolt of desperation.

"Why, _Her Majesty _is here in secret, of course," he said condescendingly. "Do you really think it would be _announced _that she was flying to Arcadia as the Emperor's guest to meet with her secret lover?"

He bristled, striking a pose and rather enjoying the attention he was getting. Admittedly, he looked rather rough around the edges; he needed a shave and his shirt was filthy, not to mention torn in places, but he looked presentable enough to pass for a rough-around-the-edges type, supposing that was the supposed Queen's taste in secret lovers.

"Well..." one of the soldiers murmured. Fortunately for the liars, this sort of behaviour was a staple Arcades scandal, so sounded far less far-fetched on their ears – it was practically run-of-the-mill.

"The fact is, that you fellows bursting in on us like this could be the unravelling of a major state secret," Balthier pointed out, and then turned to Penelo and laid a hand on her shoulder consolingly. "My love," he professed, smirking when he saw Penelo roll her eyes. "Our sordid affair has been discovered at last."

Penelo, in spite of her better sensibilities, played along with it. She laid her hand over Balthier's, and tossed her hair over her shoulder. For once, the close-minded nature of the typical Arcadian man worked to her advantage, namely that '_all the sand rats from Dalmasca look the damn same'._ Because she had Dalmascan clothing, colouring, and a strong accent, for all they knew she _could _be the queen.

"Fear not," she said to him with a great deal less romantic bravado than Balthier displayed – she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. "These men will keep our secret, I shall see to it." She turned to face them. "What are your names?" she demanded haughtily. "I shall reward you richly for your silence."

"Uh..." A significant few of the men still looked as if they didn't quite believe they were in the presence of the Queen of Dalmasca – although, there were no other known Dalmascan women of repute who'd be welcome, as Royalty was the only level of Dalmascan the Imperial palace willingly opened its doors to – or to _their_ knowledge, at least.

However, when the first man stepped forwards and gave his name, the others all quickly followed suit, because if _one _of them was to be getting bribes beyond their wildest dreams from the Queen of Dalmasca – _maybe_ – then they certainly weren't going to miss out getting their own share.

By this point, focus had firmly shifted to Penelo and her possibly identity, which meant _away_ from Balthier and the problem of the escaped prisoner. To all intents and purposes, the men had forgotten that he was the one they ought be suspicious of in the first place. Which was a nice piece of trickery, all things considered, and Balthier was rather pleased with it, especially seeing as that hadn't even occurred when he'd said it. He was just throwing names around in the hopes that the men were too witless to realize they were in the presence of one penniless Dalmascan orphan turned sky pirate, and not the country's Monarch. The latter certainly had a great deal more influence than the former.

However, as entertaining as the farce was, the sooner the Imperials were gone, the better. So he endeavoured to give them a shove in the right direction. Penelo's hand was still on his, so he picked it up and suddenly pressed it to his lips, ignoring the muffled noise of surprise she made at the advance, but naturally, she couldn't stop him for fear of shaking their façade – by this stage, if _he _was found out, she'd go down for collusion too.

Thereafter, he started to dot kisses all the way up her pleasantly soft arm, only looking up to give her a sultry look – _purely_ for the benefit of their audience, of course.

"Time is short for us, _my love_," he said in the dark, hot-blandooded undertones of a midway-interrupted seduction. "Cannot these men begone?" He then turned to the group of Imperials. "Men, Her Majesty will attend to your prices on _her _time. However, right now," he broke away, and placed several more possessive kisses along her arm, "she is on _my _time."

Whilst the majority of the men looked quite like they'd rather stay and watch the fireworks, the message was _more_ than clear enough, so by the time Balthier's lips had reached Penelo's neck, they were making awkward apologies for the interruption, and reminding her of their promised rewards as they shuffled back out of the door.

"Yes, yes," Penelo snapped, trying desperately not to squirm as Balthier sucked on her neck, quite deliberately trying to make marks she would have to hide or explain to Vaan. "If I can rule a country, I can surely remember five simple names." She couldn't even remember one, but obediently – and almost miraculously – the men ran off; they were so wrapped up in discussing what riches might be bestowed on them by the Queen that for a good long while they entirely forgot their original purpose.

Balthier had meanwhile been very much enjoying Penelo's exception to the 'look but don't touch' rule she so stringently upheld, so hardly _rushed_ to remove himself from her person after the guards left. Not that he had any serious inclinations towards her, but who was to say he couldn't appreciate the scenery while he was in the country? Unfortunately, he was the only one who appeared to feel that way, as the moment she was sure that they were safe from the guards Penelo shoved him away and then chipped him in the jaw with a tiny but unpleasantly bony fist.

"That's for doing _that_ to me without warning!" she scolded, putting a hand to her neck and rubbing furiously, while Balthier raised a teasing eyebrow, posing a question without words. "Both times!" she answered. "Jeesh, you didn't half surprise me."

"I noticed," he replied flippantly, "not least because you almost bit my lip off," he added with a smirk, but Penelo did not entertain his humour and only prodded him crossly.

"Don't you _start_, Balthier," she threatened. "Only _you _would try to pull off a trick like that. I can barely believe it even worked at all."

"Well," he said with a shrug, "I figured that if it didn't end well, at least I'd go down doing something I love." He fired her another smouldering look, and then the stinging sound of Penelo's palm against his cheek shot across the room.

She didn't hit him too hard, but it was enough to let him know she was serious and not just messing around; the last thing she needed was Balthier thinking he had a licence to stick his tongue down her throat at the drop of a hat. Which he did _not_.

"Dammit, Balthier!" She sounded a great deal more frustrated than angry. "That... that was _just _this once to cover for you, so _don't _go getting any ideas, and _don't_ forget I can blow your cover with one word."

"Oh, and make it a complete set?" he retorted far more viciously than his previous tone. "Both your partner _and _you betray me. How symmetrical." He was certain she'd know all about the incident in Nalbina, and her initial confusion was probably more about his being _here _and not in Dalmasca – or six feet underground, for that matter.

"Okay... look, I didn't have anything to do with Nalbina," she said defensively. "Vaan just ran off and pulled that stunt out of nowhere... by the time I worked out what the heck was going on it was already over."

"A convenient innocence as usual," he replied smoothly. "Funny how often that happens to you." Penelo did admittedly have a habit and reputation for engaging in all sorts of illicit and despicable activities, then whenever a single deed was pinned down she somehow came up totally blameless. It was a skill that Balthier much envied himself.

"I'm serious," she protested. "Does the fact that I just saved your butt from a bunch of Imperial guards not mean anything? Sheesh, what do I have to _do _for you to believe me?"

Balthier didn't reply, just raised a lone eyebrow at her once more.

"Ohhh why do I _ask_," she groaned, rolling her eyes with what was quickly becoming despair; he was never going to let her live this down, she could tell. "You know it'd be great if you don't tell Vaan about this. He gets jealous enough when I stay with Larsa, and he's _sixteen _for goodness sake," she remarked grumpily, while she pawed at her skin again and hoped he hadn't succeeded in leaving her with any ironically-titled 'love bites'. However, Balthier's grin only widened, and she realized a moment too late that she'd made it a certainty that he would mention it to Vaan.

"Look, do you just want to explain to me what's going on before I kick you out of here and let the guards find you?"

Balthier shrugged, resigning himself to an admirable defeat, and he stepped away so that she wouldn't be able to hit him any more. Well, not without some kind of warning at least.

"The simple story is," he began, "after your _wonderful _companion caused my and Fran's imprisonment in a rather unsavory corner of the Royal Dalmascan Palace, she was able to gain release under Viera law, and I managed to get myself transported here under extradition, where I staged my own jailbreak."

"Extradition?" echoed Penelo in confusion, "but... you're not an Arcadian, are you?"

"I was born here, was I not?" he pointed out. "Not under the name I carry now, perhaps, but that is not officiated, nor do _our_ kind have any other form of registry. Those papers that existed in my old life have not been destroyed." What he said next, wasn't something he thought he would _ever_ say, but strangely enough, admitting it didn't pain him like he'd thought it would, though it certainly shocked Penelo. "If I am _anything_, it would be an Arcadian."

The words came almost freely from his tongue, and caused him to wonder if maybe he'd actually done himself a bit of good in his play-acting. The stigma of his past certainly didn't seem quite the dark corner it once had, especially now he'd made a mockery of it in the name of piracy.

"It was the only thing that could pull my neck out of your _delightful _Queen's strangling hands, anyway, so it had to be done," he pointed out a little more distastefully.

"But... why is an Arcadian prison better than a Dalmascan one?" questioned Penelo. "I mean, other than Ashe saying she'd hang you – even though she probably wouldn't in the end. She's sentenced Vaan to death twice already, you know."

"And he still works for her?" he exclaimed. "He must be far more gullible than I ever imagined."

"He doesn't _work_ for her," she countered. "He just sometimes... does odds and ends, you know, just like you did for Larsa."

"And how well _that _has served me," he replied unpleasantly. "I have no partner, no airship, and am seeking help from the companion of the person who nearly got me hanged." He told himself – not for the first time – that this was going to be the last time he ever agreed to help monarchy.

"No airship!" gasped Penelo, "what happened?"

"Stolen," he supplied bitterly. "We ought to have known better than to use the Aerodrome with our affairs as they are, but no use saying it now. According to the most trustworthy of the untrustworthy sources, my airship is currently being abused by the charming family who you had the pleasure of being abducted by in years gone by," he explained with more depression than anger.

"Wait... do you mean _Ba'gamnan_?" said Penelo. "No way."

"Way," he clipped sarcastically. "So you can imagine that I am somewhat out of sorts," he concluded with a creeping tone of weariness, as he slowly sunk down onto the bed.

"It has really been an awfully trying week," he sighed, resting his head in his hands. Penelo was reminded of what Fran had told her about Balthier not having the same energy or drive since their accident in the Bahamut, but wouldn't dare to bring it up. He _never_ talked about the Bahamut, except in the very vaguest terms that never gave away what _really _happened to him in there. Vaan had attempted to bring it up once – being Vaan, of course – and the reaction was even worse than the time he'd asked Fran how old she was.

Balthier had _shot _him, for pity's sake.

"Hey, don't worry about it," she said comfortingly; so long as she didn't mention any touchy subjects, she could at least try to console him.

"I am rather afraid," he began resignedly, "the only thing you could do to raise my spirits right now would likely make you more inclined to punch me again." He glanced at the bed behind them, and Penelo tried to work out whether she should feel sympathy or indignation – then settled for feeling a little of both.

"I'm sure I can do something... something _else_ to help," she said with a strange mix of compassion and awkwardness. "I mean, you and Fran haven't done anything rotten to me in all the time I've known you."

"Ohh?" he questioned a little more livelily, picking up on her not classing his recent actions as 'rotten'. He smiled faintly and propped his chin onto his hand, giving her a calculating look. "I'm still in your good books, am I? Maybe I've a chance yet."

"Ohmygawd, you _never _leave off do you!" she burst, grabbing handfuls of her hair and tugging her fingers through it crossly.

"I must ask, actually," he broke the direction of the conversation suddenly, before she could get any crosser, also demonstrating exactly how fickle his flirtation really was. "Why are you here at all? I was so relieved to discover you that I rather missed out questioning it."

"After I heard about what went down at the Palace with all the Arcadian airships and the soldiers, I had Vaan fly up here so I could talk to Larsa about it," she explained. "I mean, there were rumours going round of another _war_ kicking off. The Arcadian military hasn't been back in Dalmascan since the independence, it was a _big deal _for a lot of peop..." As she recounted the event, parts of the story suddenly started to click into place with Balthier's own narrative, and then all at once the pieces aligned.

"Hold on! Was all that fuss over _you?" _Penelo accused ferociously.

"It's hard being popular," Balthier answered with a proud lilt, but somehow sounded a lot more chagrined than joking by the time he'd finished the sentence.

"Well, anyway," she pressed. "I think the least Vaan and I owe you guys is helping you get the Strahl back. I mean, he might not like it at first, but I'm part of the partnership too." Balthier looked up at her quite suddenly; Penelo was actually surprised by how touched he seemed by the gesture. He spoke calmly, barely even meeting her eyes.

"Fran and I could not thank you enough," he said softly.

"Um, it's okay," was her awkward reply. "I mean, you've helped us out before, and after what you've done for Dalmasca... well, I just think you're entitled to a favour or two." However, Balthier snorted.

"You try telling _that _to Ashe. I'd think she wants my teeth for a necklace, the way she goes on."

"Uh... _g__reat_... but, um. First thing's first, we gotta get out of here," she pointed out, trying to keep the conversation away from the slightly more contentious topic of Ashe – even _Vaan_ knew what Balthier and the Queen could be like when they weren't getting on.

"Well, _that_ is going to be no small feat," he replied. "There is only _one _entrance to this damn fort and it is like to be crawling with guards from sun-up to sun-down."

"Yeah... I can't see Larsa letting anybody get in or out of here for a good while," she agreed.

"So we have quite the pretty problem on our hands. "Balthier idly rubbed his jaw as he mused, and resultantly remembered that he was in dire need of a shave; he found a small basin in the corner of the guest apartments, then stood and approached it.

"Um, what are you doing?" Penelo asked politely.

"Just a little upkeep," he replied casually, rummaging through one of his packs until he found a folding razor. "You never know when your next shave might be in these dangerous times."

"Oh," she murmured, adding a little more sarcastically, "useful."

"It'll help me think, so none of your lip," he reprimanded, mixing up a soap and starting to lather his face.

Penelo sighed and flopped back on the bed to think herself. While she wasn't involved in this problem except by her own admission, she knew she wouldn't be able to live with herself leaving him like this. Balthier had done his bit to save her from Ba'gamnan before, without any real reason to aside from some nagging from Vaan, so she surely owed him the same in return.

He was remarkably quiet – for once – as he shaved, so she took the silence as an opportunity to think without distraction. The trouble was that if Balthier got anywhere near the exit, or _any _guards for that matter, he would risk being identified and getting thrown straight back into the cell – somehow, he had to be hidden _and _get out.

"Hey... I think I might have an idea." she announced, while he lowered his razor at last.

"Oh?" he murmured encouragingly, burbling as he rinsed his face. "Do tell," he added while patting his clean-shaven jaw dry.

"Well, I reckon that you could slip through the guards without being recognised if you were in disguise, right?" she explained. "And they're only going to be questioning guests and civilians coming and going, right?"

"Theoretically."

"So... I was thinking, if you were somehow dressed as a _guard _then no one would suspect you," she continued tentatively; she didn't think it was a totally awful plan, but Balthier could always disagree – though he hadn't objected yet, which was a positive sign.

"...It could work," he judged cautiously. "Although, there is the problem of _obtaining_ said armour without inviting the attention of _all _of the armour."

"Well, that's where I can help," she replied brightly. "If _I_ could lure someone in here, you could take them by surprise." Balthier thought about it for a while, eventually coming to the realization he didn't have enough options to be selective anyway.

"Well, I can't say I am totally confidant," he relented, "but it's about as likely to work as anything else."

"That's what I thought," she agreed grimly. "They almost always travel in pairs, though. That's a problem."

"Hm, it may be turned to our advantage," he muttered. "If the other didn't know the change had taken place, he could vouch for me."

"I'll see if I can stall one outside and send the other in here alone, then," she suggested, at which Balthier nodded, fingering his chin as he thought over the likelihood of such a plan actually coming off without disaster.

"It's rather an overly ambitious, hair-brained scheme," he pointed out critically, but then paused and grinned faintly, as if he were remembering something pleasant. "Then again, those can be the finest kind of schemes," he added with a little more optimism.

"Well... I'll do my best." It was all she _could _do. Penelo got up and walked towards the door, turning back just before she opened it to announce with a touch of uncertainty. "Wish me luck." Balthier scoffed in the back of his throat.

"You shall need a great deal more than _luck," _he pointed out sardonically, raising an eyebrow as she opened the door. "Better flirt with them," he suggested, "I know I can never think straight when you turn on the charm."

Penelo responded by slamming the door, while Baltheir chuckled into his hand and wondered just how many guards she would come back with.

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><p>End of Chapter 11<p>

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><p>Huzzah through it at last! If you've been enjoying the story drop me a review, or if you like Disney's Tangled (which OH GOD I LOVE) take a peek through my profile and check out my new chaptered Tangled fic <em>Flynn Wanted<em>. Because you know what, I'm a sucker for a charming gentleman-thief.


	12. Chapter 12

Because 2:30 ams is the best time for updating anything ever.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 12<p>

_A Pirate knows appearances are everything.  
><em>

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><p>"Uh! Excuse me!" Penelo shouted girlishly, running up to a pair of Imperials on patrol around the Arcadian Imperial Palace. They turned to her disdainfully, noting her accent at once. Seeing as they didn't drop down on one knee or address her as 'Your Majesty', she could safely assume that they hadn't been part of the group she and Balthier had encountered earlier, which was probably for the better.<p>

"Um... I was just in my room," she began hurriedly, trying to play into the vacuous stereotype Arcadians held of Dalmascans in the hopes it would make her seem less conspicuous. "So I was in there, and, _like_, this really suspicious guy just ran in." Until that point the two men had been paying her very little attention, but that quickly changed.

"Is that so, ma'am?" one said, surprisingly cordial for an Imperial addressing someone like her. "What sort of suspicious man would that be?"

"Well I don't really know, he just charged in saying something about soldiers and hiding – but then he tried to grab me!" she told them dramatically – noticing that so far she'd told them more or less the truth. "He tried to stop me from running away, but I managed to escape – and... I think he's still in there!" she finished on a high note, and the guards were appropriately enthused.

"Which way?" one of them bellowed, so she pointed and ran off back towards her room with the two of them – very noisily – in tow. She got so caught up in leading them back that when they arrived she almost forgot to stop them at the door.

"Wait a minute!" she yelled hastily, flinging herself across the door before they had a chance to rip it open and charge in. "Uh... maybe it's not such a good idea if you both run in at the same time," she suggested unconvincingly.

"What?" one of the men scorned. "Listen, lady, we don't tell you how to do _your _job." She shrugged off the condescension and carried on.

"I just mean, what if he's not in there? Or... or what if he gets out and runs away – I couldn't stop him by myself," she argued persistently, and then quickly closed in on her goal. "Maybe one of you should stay outside, just in case?" The guards shifted awkwardly for a few moments.

"_I _was _about_ to suggest that, actually," the more vocal of the two piped up. "Why don't _you _go in and search the room," he told his quieter companion. If he tries to bolt I'll be ready to catch him – and if he's _inside_ then holler out and I'll burst in to get'im by surprise." It was a convenient plan for the proponent, not least because it resulted in his being the hero in either eventuality – not that it was any concern of Penelo's, so long as it meant keeping one of them outside. So after fortunately nodding his agreement, the obliging subordinate started to creep toward the door, taking deep breaths that whistled through his helmet as he put one hand up defensively.

"Go!" his partner hissed when the man lingered a little too long; then, with a great clatter the Imperial charged inside, the door slamming behind him. It was remarkably quiet in the immediate aftermath.

"So, uh, what else can you tell us about this man?" the remaining man inquired, and Penelo made a convincing job of looking distressed and confused.

"I... I don't really know, it all happened so fast." she babbled, straining her ears for the sound of some sort of scuffle from within, but all she heard were the normal sort of Imperial-armour movement sounds.

"You see, a _very_ dangerous man has escaped from the prisons," the guard explained dourly. "There's a security alert of the highest level. You may 'ave narrowly escaped a very dangerous fate, young miss." She pulled an appalled face, largely at being called 'young miss', but that seemed to content the guard for a while longer. "What the heck is he _doing_ in there?" he eventually started to berate. "He's either _in_ there or he's _not –_ I'm gonna-"

"Don't-" Penelo rushed, but before either of them could do anything the door opened, and a fully armoured Imperial stepped out, making an awkward shrugging action.

"Nothing?" the guard exclaimed, shoving his partner aside. "Here, let _me_ look." He clattered into the room and started to look behind doors and under the bed – as well as in the cupboards and a few other bizarre places that a fully grown man would never be able to conceal himself in, but nevertheless seemed to merit searching.

Penelo looked carefully at the Imperial, who for all _she _knew could be the same man who went in, as it was impossible to tell under the armour. It wasn't _that_ unlikely Balthier had changed his mind and run off after she left, so it was with suspicion and a touch of anxiety that she watched the man very slowly raise his right hand directly upwards, his gauntleted palm facing outwards. Doubt was starting to seriously eat away at the back of Penelo's mind, when he suddenly wiggled his fingers at her in a playful wave. She released a tense breath and gave him a jaded look – he kept her in suspense just because he _could_. Soon the other Imperial shouldered past Balthier again as he came out of the room.

"Fine waste of time you've made for us here," he said critically to her.

"Oh... um, I'm sorry," Penelo simpered. "I guess he got away." The one real Imperial sighed and started to shuffle morosely down the hall.

"At least we know he's in the area now," he pointed out, but sounded less than restored by the news. The prestige of finding the Emperor's most wanted after a jailbreak would have been a fantastic asset to anyone's career.

"Ahh... do you think you could maybe help me out one last time?" Penelo asked hopefully, strategically keeping herself between the Imperial and Balthier, so that they couldn't get too good a look at each other. "See, I'm pretty shaken up after all this, so I was wondering... if maybe you two could help me get out of the castle? With all this panic, I don't know if they'll let me out by my self, and I.. I just want to go home," she explained pathetically. The guard looked at Balthier, who shrugged and then nodded, patting Penelo on the head in a patronising fashion – not something she appreciated, but that was probably why he did it.

"Sure, I can't see no harm in it," the Imperial agreed. "The Lieutenant'll be in the gatehouse, so we'll be going that way to report to him anyway." With that in mind, they set off; Penelo tried not to look at Balthier too often as they all walked towards the entrance, in case it raised any suspicion, but it was quite difficult _not_ to stare when she knew Balthier of all people was wandering around in a suit of Imperial armour – as if he'd never been more at home in his life.

Thankfully, the journey passed without any mishaps, and with two Imperials on either side of her no one even thought to stop her at the gates for questioning. The _real _guard halted as soon as they got to the caged exit to the street, expecting her to go through by herself, so she had to think on her feet.

"Uh... can you walk me to the aerodrome please?" she asked Balthier urgently, but shooting a pleading look at the other Imperial. "I don't know if I can remember the way." Balthier made a gesture of some kind with his arms, and patted her on the head again – she swore she could hear a soft chuckle of amusement as she scowled.

"You're happy to go with her?" the guard questioned Balthier, who nodded in reply. "Well all right, but be quick about it," he relented, guessing that his partner had taken a fancy to the girl, and wanted to get her alone. "I'll go report to the boss," he added understandingly – although that was probably because it gave him the opportunity to claim all the credit for himself – and then banged on the gates of the cage-door so that the man stationed there jumped with shock.

"Hey! Let these two out!" he barked, and the man fumbled into action, clanking the first door of the passage open clumsily. "Now don't be more than ten minutes," Balthier was warned – of course, they'd never see him again, but he nodded anyway. "We've got to be back on the beat by then." The pirate nodded one last time and turned on his heels, following Penelo and the gatekeeper as he opened the far door onto the street, strolling effortlessly back into freedom.

They walked side by side, so to all observers were no more than a Dalmascan girl being escorted through the city by an Imperial soldier. The slight downside was that the majority of people would assume from the arrangement that she was a prostitute who had been caught trying to turn tricks in the upper quarters.

"How long are you gonna keep that thing on?" she asked Balthier a little tensely; at least if he took the armour off she wouldn't get quite so many filthy looks from passers by.

"Not til we reach Old Arcades," he replied firmly. "I don't think I'll risk recognition until we're well _outside_ the Imperial scope – this gimmick is hardly going to work a second time."

"Fine," she relented grumpily, and they paced a while longer until she was struck by a thought. "Oh! I was gonna ask," she remarked a little more brightly, "what did you do with the other guy? I coulda sworn that guard turned the room upside down."

"That would be because he wasn't _in _the room," Balthier replied smoothly, though his voice echoed from inside the helmet with a strange tone. "I thought to err on the side of safety."

"Then... what did you do with him?" she persisted.

"I rolled him out the window," he replied with a little chuckle, and Penelo stopped walking suddenly.

"You _what?_" she gasped. Balthier paused also and turned back to watch her.

"Is there a problem?" he enquired politely.

"That room is three stories up!" she yelped. "You just _dropped_ him out the window?"

Balthier was quiet, which Penelo would have liked to think because he was considering his actions, but knew that it was more likely because he was attempting to work out what the perceived wrongdoing was. For a man who professed to never kill innocents in cold blood, he seemed to possess a remarkable recklessness when it came to the preservation of Imperial soldiers – most soldiers, as a matter of fact. He seemed to think they had forfeited their lives already by enlisting, and he was fulfilling a diplomatic duty by allowing them to die for their country – or so he liked to argue when drunk.

"He had a soft landing," he pointed out. "There were bushes and the like below. I imagine he survived." Penelo continued to look at him with a mix of distaste and astonishment. "... Probably."

"You know, it's not impossible to imagine why Ashe wants to have you hung," she remarked frostily, beginning to walk again in the direction of the old quarters of the city.

"Oh now don't _you _start," Balthier retorted cattily. "I've had more than enough listening to Humes who want me dead of recent."

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><p>When they reached Old Arcades, Balthier halted for a moment to discard the armour he had been resenting a little more with every step. Then he took a moment aside to draw Penelo into the off-street that led down to the Sochen Cave Palace, speaking to her seriously.<p>

"You know," he remarked. "We may still part ways here." She faltered a little out of confusion, not expecting the gravity of his tone or the suggestion that they would split up; she'd promised to help him find the Strahl, so help him she would.

"Huh?" she phrased her feelings on the matter somewhat inelegantly.

"Well, you have been of tremendous help," he explained politely, "but feel no obligation to do any more. Fran and I can look after ourselves, so if you did not wish to go any further it is of no consequence to us."

"Oh... but... what about the Strahl?" she questioned; while she didn't want to go as far as saying she was upset by Balthier's cool deferral, it did affect her a little more than it should have. She simply wanted to show both of them that she could be trusted – that they were _friends. _Piracy was hardly an occupation that lent itself towards developing friendships, so she was careful of those few she had – and also felt it would be a betrayal of everything their group had been through together to drift apart so easily.

"Of course, it'll be slightly trickier recapturing her without your aid," he replied dismissively, "but not altogether impossible. I merely wanted to suggest to you that if you do not _want _to offer help, you do not have to," he rephrased his meaning a little more delicately, but Penelo still shook her head.

"I want to help, believe me," she assured him. "Vaan got you into that mess in the first place, so getting you out makes us even."

"Still cleaning up after him?" he replied a great deal more light-heartedly, perhaps a little relieved after her reassurance – although he'd be hard-pressed to ever admit it. "You know, I rather think you could so easily move on to _much_ greater things than trailing round after him." He punctuated the statement with a cheap look, suggesting that he could think of a few places, none of them even remotely decent.

"_You _think a lot of things," she rebutted. "Most of them don't do good for anyone but you."

"Now, now," he retorted, clicking his tongue at her a few times. "You can't blame me for being an archetype for our kind. Piracy comes with a requisite for self-involvement and selfishness."

"Although," the twang of Viera voice echoed up from the narrow passage into Sochen, "_you_ would carry it too far, of course." Penelo watched Balthier quite visibly light up with the sound, and by the time Fran loomed into view he was already half way down the steps that separated them and quite clearly not listening.

"Fran!" he cried, bounding up to her and throwing out a hand to meet her, which she clasped in her own with a faint smile. "I cannot express how _wonderful_ it is to see you," he professed, but no more than their hands touched, and even they were soon released. The way they behaved physically would never be a gauge of how close they were – far more affection passed between them in quips than in contact.

"And you," she replied coolly, only a shine in her eyes betraying emotions below her icy surface. "Penelo," she greeted with reserve, spotting the girl over Balthier's shoulder and holding her gaze mistrustfully – not entirely surprising considering the experience she and her partner had at the hands of Penelo and hers.

"Fran, do not scowl so," Balthier clucked as he lolled back against the passage wall. "On the first count because it does not suit you, and on the second because she has been of great aid to my end of affairs, and even offers to help us find the Strahl."

"It's true," Penelo said honestly, edging closer. "I'm really sorry for all the trouble Vaan's caused you. I mean, we're sky pirates too – if we don't help each other, who will?"

"Quite," Balthier concurred. "I can't imagine a helping hand would go amiss in wrenching our precious airship out of scaly claws." He looked back over to Fran. "Wouldn't you say?" His partner was quiet as she judged the situation, crossing her arms over her midriff thoughtfully while her eyes remained on Penelo.

"What of Vaan?" she questioned at last, still not breaking her gaze. "If you propose to lend us flight in the Galbana, what make you of him?"

"Oh I wouldn't worry about _that_," Balthier interjected vivaciously. "I've got more than a score to settle with pirate _ratsbrain_."

"You would have this?" Fran challenged Penelo; partnerships were fragile things, and she implied no small betrayal in letting the two of them take the helm, likely against Vaan's will.

"Well... just this once," the girl replied, holding up her hands blamelessly. "He got himself into this – I never had a part in what he did, not to mention the ship is half mine _anyway_, so I get just as much say in what we do as he does."

"I do so love a woman with a clear sense of amorals," Balthier remarked contently, pushing himself off the wall and stepping over to Penelo. He patted her on the shoulder approvingly – not an action she appreciated, firing him an irate look – then he glanced up with a slight smirk, and Fran cautiously nodded her consent. "Then, with all in attendance," he began flamboyantly, "I think we better make haste, don't you?"

Penelo brushed Balthier's hand off her shoulder and walked towards platform that lowered into the Sochen Cave Palace, passing close by Fran, who caught her meaning silently.

"You better get all your equipment in order, then," she announced. "Vaan _never_ lands at Aerodromes in Arcadia. I always meet him with a flare from the Uplands." Balthier's face fell in an obvious and somewhat entertaining way; he had evidently been hoping for a quick aerodrome-borne transfer onto the trail of his beloved airship, but his luck was faltering as usual.

"Must we?" he asked wanly, not liking the caves at the best of times – he was not a fan of dark, cold and unpleasant places as a rule, and Sochen also had the added gift of smelling absolutely rank.

"Well, thinking about what happened to _your _ship after docking in that aerodrome, I don't think you've got much of a case to make," contested Penelo.

"I am not even _armed, _what with my recent string of incarcerations."

"Well, I've got a dagger you could use," she said without missing a beat. "I'm serious. He won't come to the city." Her tone indicated quite irrevocably that they _were _all going to be passing through Sochen, whether Balthier liked it or not.

"... A _dagger_?" he finally sighed, and then looked across to Fran. She must have travelled a long way on foot from Rabanastre to the city, because she was armed to the teeth and then some; she had not one but two bows strapped across her back. While not thinking much of it at first, he was assuredly grateful of her portable armoury now. "I think I had rather have one of those," he announced, still making his dislike of the scenario very much clear. He did not want to waste the time getting his hands a gun when he could be chasing down the Strahl, so Fran just nodded, reaching over her head and removing one of the bows to hand to him.

"The lighter of the two," she remarked; she carried one suited to firing at speed and another of much greater power, for piercing hides and inflicting lasting damage.

"Much appreciated," he replied a little listlessly, holding out a hand for the bundle of arrows she passed to him next.

"I didn't know you could use a bow," said Penelo, a little surprised

"I don't like to, but it is at least a damn sight better than swiping at fiends with some toothpick," he retorted dryly, slinging the bow over his arm with a huff and following Penelo down the passage. "Better get on with it then," he added tersely, shooing her along when she dawdled.

"The preference is simple," Fran commented. "You do not like to get dirty," Penelo sniggered in agreement.

"Not at all," he countered vindictively. "I simply do not like to have my _attire _soiled." They all piled into the transporter and he slung a hand over the glyph that activated it. "Unlike the present company, my clothing stand to become rather unpleasant when drowned in blood, slime and other things nasty."

"Wait, what does that mean?" Penelo fired as the platform slowly started to descend. "My things get just as dirty as yours." Fran's armour was understandable, as it had nothing that could soak up water or blood, but she did not see how she was exempt.

"Yes, but you wear a great deal _less_," he countered, giving her a heated look before letting his gaze wander back to the decaying palace opening up beneath them. "Skin, as we know, wipes clean a great deal easier than linen," he added, and as if to cement his point, but probably more likely for practical purposes, he started rolling up the sleeves of his shirt.

Penelo had been about to offer argument, but the sounds died cold in her mouth; she froze after he started folding back his left sleeve, because the higher he pulled it, the more she saw of the scars_._

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><p><em>End of Chapter Twelve<em>

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><p>Only the sweet voice of Gideon Emery carries me through these dark times. Also I had a minor tantrum at my Tangled fic and its fandom, so I decided to come and give Balthier some love before he moves on and stops calling me.<p> 


	13. Chapter 13

So I was telling my nonfanfic friend about my recent writing kick, and I mentioned how this story was about 70k long and my baby and I love it and all things to do with it, and then I was like SUDDEN DESPERATE NEED TO UPDATE! Then I found this chapter in my main folder but then it was an OLD copy that hadn't been edited 1/3 way through so I searched my harddrive and FOUND the new copy and then finished it and prettied it up and the end of this horrifically dull story is that I have updated Pirates of Ivalice.

Oh also I met Gideon Emery. He signed my purse. I managed not to scream and faint with blood streaming out of my nose.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 13<p>

_A Pirate knows how and when to strategically undress_

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><p>When asked about the year-long intermission in his and Fran's activities following the fall of the Bahamut, Balthier's answers were exciting, elaborate and anything but truthful. The explanations had ranged from lying on a desert island off the Phon Coast working on his tan, to a year spent in secrecy 'personally servicing' the Queen of Dalmasca, and even the slightly more fantastical claim that he and Fran had discovered an airship capable of flight above the sky itself, and had in fact piloted such a machine to the Ivalicean moon. The truth was likely far more mundane, but it had been fastidiously concealed and neither he nor his partner would ever speak a word on the topic.<p>

It could be assumed Fran was injured gravely, as she plainly wore the scars that told as much, but Balthier was another case entirely. Vaan once dared to ask what _had _happened to him, and Balthier had calmly raised his gun and shot the boy, declaring it was 'very much like that, Vaan, only worse.' Of course, such a protective haze around the topic ought to have warned Penelo not to stare when she saw the great secret that had earned Vaan a particularly unbecoming scar, but it was so horrifically surprising that she couldn't help herself.

Although only rolled up as far as the elbow, she could see that in comparison to the toned, smooth forearm of the right, Balthier's left was a mess. From wrist up to elbow and under his shirt twisted deep, savage scars; a patchwork of bleached white and still-red slashes, mere scraps of skin in between. Penelo could see clearly where bones had broken, pierced skin, and even with the aid of magic only been healed into an unsightly approximation of what had once been. She had never seen him show weakness in the arm, but he shot and did most things with his right, and she knew better to think Balthier would ever let such a thing slip. The fact that he revealed it in her company told her she must have done something to earn it.

While she was occupied staring, the noise of the Sochen Cave lift scraping to the bottom of its rest had attracted monsters – who knew the device brought freshly revived travellers stocked up with provisions into the citadel. Balthier and Fran raised matching bows identically, and Penelo had to wait a moment longer before she drew her own weapon, too curious about his proficiency with archery to miss the spectacle. Anyone could swing a sword, but bows were not something to be picked up as you fancied.

"What do you reckon, Fran?" he announced, to all outside appearances holding the weapon comfortably. "Care to judge how rotten my aim has become?"

"Then on my mark," she replied coolly, and released an arrow – it flew for an imp, hitting it square in the skull and sending the skeletal creature spiralling to the ground with a shriek. Balthier whistled applause, then drew his own weapon, aiming for a similar creature nearby; he showed no signs of strain, nor did his expression flicker as the bowstring whisked past his face. He hit his mark in the chest, eliciting a warcry, but still it hovered in the air – without hesitating he loaded a second arrow and fired again, this time taking the creature to the ground.

"Passable," professed Fran, as her partner dropped his arm and flexed.

"I learned from the best, after all," he replied warmly, and then turned his head back to flash a look over his shoulder. "Tell me, Penelo," he started conversationally, "are you intending to fight, or is gawping at me admiringly enough to content you?" He was joking, but there was enough of a tone in his voice to get her grappling for her weapons. As she sprung out daggers-first, sprinting for the closest monster, she pondered exactly what she'd done to earn this privilege from Balthier – revealing not just a humanity behind his great and ever-protected reputation, but a serious weakness to boot.

"So, something passed between the two of you," stated Fran the moment Penelo was out of earshot. Her comment came suddenly enough that Balthier's shot flew wild, missing its target completely. He dropped weapon a moment and regained composure, turning toward her critically.

"Fran, I can't imagine _what's_ possessing that pretty head of yours," he replied dryly, bringing up and firing another arrow into the mark he'd just missed. Though she didn't respond, her eyes lingering on his bare arms provided accusation enough. "Oh, that," he threw out coolly, glancing down at himself. "You know, it _quite_ slipped my mind."

"Ha," she replied disdainfully – she knew far better than to think her partner's injuries everslipped his mind for too long, least of all when they were on display. "So you wish for something to pass between you?"

"Now _Fran_," he scolded. "You assume that I have either taken advantage of her to the extent that I no longer care if she sees my arm, or I wish to use it as leverage to take advantage instead? Do you really think me so shallow and manipulative?" he challenged, and while Penelo tackled beasts far ahead of them, Fran gave him a long, hard look. "Fine. Point taken," he remarked bitterly. "If you must know, I am concerned with her offer of the Galbana. An indication of my trust in her might strengthen her resolve to trust us back. It is an opportunity I would not like to lose."

"Ah," Fran murmured thoughtfully. "A wise move." Balthier dropped his bow and played at being sentimentally moved.

"Why Fran, what'ere did I do to deserve such praise?" he mocked. "You really _must_ have missed me."

"Then concentrate and do not give me reason to feel otherwise," she retorted coldly. Balthier grinned, and raised his bow once more.

"Geez would you two _hurry up!_" Penelo complained as they fell far behind where she fought. "You can chat when we get _out _of here," she added a little crossly. "It'll take forever at the rate you're going at."

"But you are doing such a delightful job alone," Balthier commented. "I was rather enjoying the show." Penelo groaned, wondering why, if he obviously liked her enough to share one of his greatest secrets with her, Balthier still tried to both provoke and flirt with her – usually at the same time.

"You know, I'm really beginning to think I shoulda left you to the guards, Balthier," she said wearily.

"Oh most likely," he replied with confidence. "Little good ever came from a selfless deed." He grabbed a loose end on his makeshift wristguard and tugged it tight again, taking care to flex his wounded limb. Gripping his left forearm in his right hand, he slowly twisted his wrist with his fingers pressing down over one of the deeper gouges left by whatever horrible accident could have _done _that to someone, even with healing magiks at their disposal. "_I_ should certainly know," he added sourly, twisting the arm again until he felt something click, attempting to disguise a small wince. Even in spite of his hate for what he terms 'the arm', he was eternally thankful that it hadn't been his right.

"Oh, uh, are you okay?" asked Penelo cautiously, suddenly feeling shamed by her sharp words. "Do you wanna stop?"

"I am perfectly able," he shot slightly too fast. "Just a little strain on an old war wound. It'll warm up soon enough." Penelo looked as if she wanted to say more, which she did; she had reams of questions about the cost he and Fran had borne alone to save a city they had no ties or obligations to. Endless questions that it just _killed _her not to know the answer to.

Because selfish as they professed to be, it hadn't been for _their _sake that Balthier and Fran nearly lay down their lives – it was for Ashe's, for hers and Vaan's sake; the people for whom Rabanastre was the centre of the world. So she became even more determined to help them, and if Vaan didn't like it he was just going to have to deal with it, because really they were owed so much more.

"Okay," she said soothingly. "Pay no attention to me, just go at your own pace, it's fine."

"If you loosen the bow string it will relieve pressure on your arm," Fran added helpfully, and at once Balthier whipped his head around towards them both.

"For the god's sake!" he snapped. "Would the both of you just stop _fussing!_" He huffed irritably, and started to pace a great deal faster than the two of them. Penelo shared a look with Fran, whose mouth lifted slightly in one corner as she strode to keep up with him.

* * *

><p>Vaan had been cruising around Arcades all afternoon watching keenly for Penelo's flare, then at long last he saw it light up a landing spot on the Tchita uplands, and started to plunge the Galbana towards the ground. He couldn't <em>wait<em> to get out of Arcadia – he'd only agreed to come up in the first place because Penelo had chewed off his ear about Nalbina, although he _was_ worried about an Imperial sky-fleet cruising into Rabanastre like it was still the occupation.

Although Larsa was all right – for an Imperial – he still couldn't trust them fully; at least not like Penelo did. He hurtled the ship towards the ground and didn't even bother getting up to meet her, just released the landing hatch and waited, drumming his fingers impatiently on the flight controls.

"I thought you said that you were gonna leave _early_," he moaned as he heard footsteps coming up behind him. "I've been hanging around here for _ages_." It was only at that point that he noticed there were the sounds of several pairs of feet, not just the one he was accustomed to. "Uh, Penelo?" he said quizzically, getting up and looking backwards over his shoulder. "You got someone with you?"

Penelo was standing at the entrance into the cockpit, half way through the door and tilting her head at him curiously.

"What?" she said scathingly. "There's no one with me." Vaan's brows furrowed, and he looked around suspiciously.

"I coulda sworn I heard a load of footsteps," he insisted, scratching the back of his head. He shifted to the side, attempting to look through the partly-open door through which she stood.

"Don't be paranoid, Vaan," she said caustically. "You must be hearing things." She stepped through the door, letting it roll shut behind her and strolled over to her seat. "It doesn't look like there's gonna be another war, either way," she added, attempting to shift Vaan's attention away from a very sensible suspicion.

"Oh... uh, great," he grunted, slowly slinking back into his seat after giving her one last searching look, which unfortunately revealed nothing. As he started engaging take-off, the sound of the glossar engines drowned out the very faint noises of doors opening further into the ship, and Vaan was none the wiser as he took to the air and set off southward.

Settled rather comfortably in what they had discerned were Vaan's quarters, Balthier and Fran took the moment of peace to catch up.

"So tell me, how fares the free world?" he asked sarcastically, half-occupied by removing all of his earrings one by one and polishing them with what appeared to be one of Vaan's socks.

"It remains as it always was," Fran replied uninterestingly. "I travelled with my escort to Nalbina, used what little spoils we had on a flight to Balfonheim, and from there made my way to Arcades."

Balthier pulled a face. "You fared the Cerobi Steppe alone? Now that's ambitious," he remarked, sounding almost parental. "I must say I'm glad to see you are all in one piece still." He gave her an appreciative lookand winked. "I rather like you this way."

"It was a wonder they did not throw me out of Balfonheim the moment I landed," she said dryly, ignoring his attempts to flirt. "They are not pleased in the aerodrome about the outstanding gil we owe. It was only _your _absence that allowed me to slip the net."

"Oh _that_," he remarked disapprovingly. "The lengths to which these petty paper-pushers will chase someone for a few million gil these days. It is like they honestly have nothing better to do with their time."

"Tis not a _mere_ sum at all," she commented. "It has been some time since we have had that much to our name.

"Well it can't be helped if the gods seek to thwart us at every turn," he said in exasperation. "We would have made plenty off Rabanastre had our airship not been _stolen_ before we could sell the birds."

"Yes, the blame falls upon our _luck_, once again," she remarked frostily. Whilst their luck with gil had not been the most fortunate of late, Fran could see that was not all there was to it; it'd taken them a year to recover from the Bahamut crash physically – but she had suffered worse in her time anyway, and returned to her normative state with ease.

Balthier, however, fared worse. It seemed he was still trying desperately to return to that place they'd lost – to the time before they had met Ashe and become embroiled in restoring a nation and battling gods. Since the Bahamut, he somehow lacked the spark of ingenuity that had made them so successful before, as if he'd exhausted himself trying to go back to how he _used _to be, rather than looking forwards.

However, Fran dared to think that his spate in Arcadian society might have done him some good, reminding him that the past was insignificant, and only what you made of it. She both cared for and had faith in him – it it took a year, or if it took three, she would wait until he was mended again.

"What?" Balthier questioned sharply, noticing her tone and pensive silence with a little more curtness than normal. "You are _staring_, my dear."

"How did you escape the palace?" she questioned hastily, moving on before he could sour any more.

"Oh, well I wriggled out of the cell by throwing dear Larsa a burning red herring," he explained, allowing himself a small chuckle of satisfaction – not least with also ridding himself of the awful sheet of music Fran had tormented him with.

"I discovered Penelo completely by chance, and after giving the subsequent search party the slip with her... ah, _assistance_, it was she who contrived an idea – to lure in some passing Imperials that I might quickly dispose of one and don the armour. We strolled out of the palace in broad daylight with a man at our sides." He grinned proudly with the recollection. "You know, it wasn't half bad, all things considered."

"She is clever," Fran pointed out, "and makes a fine sky pirate."

"She'd make a fine _anything_, I suspect," he replied with private pleasure. "Although, she lacks the required dishonesty for piracy at times. Vaan, I think, much underappreciates her."

"Yet they appear to be happy together," Fran remarked. "Though they evidently do not yet share a bed."

"Oh, but in the tangled web of Hume emotions that does not mean much," Balthier replied with a smirk. "Why, you and I do not share quarters, but I assure you any other man who _did _happen to dwell there would have a date to make with the unpleasant end of my favourite pistol." He timed the comment with a cheeky look and raised eyebrow, but Fran did not doubt her partner was deadly serious in his threat.

"I must say," he began anew, when Fran failed to encourage further conversation. "I do wonder how long before she tires of piracy. It is not her calling whichever way you might look at it." He was then quiet for a moment or two, as a sly grin crept across his face. "You know," he speculated avidly, "the Solidor boy is quite assuredly besotted with her. I would not wonder if playing consort to the crown of Arcadia may be on the cards for our charming Penelo in years to come."

Fran rolled her eyes with a short sigh. "You speculate more than a gossiping housewife."

"Well what _else _am I to do with my time?" he berated crossly, lolling back on Vaan's bed and tucking his hands behind his head, finished with cleaning his jewellery. "I have spent the majority of the past few days on the wrong side of prison bars. A lack of thrilling stimuli leads to a lack of interesting thoughts."

"A fault we shall have to remedy, then," she replied, uncrossing her arms and tilting her head toward the door. "I believe I hear him coming," she announced, and Balthier slithered quietly to his feet. Vaan they presumed had engaged the auto-pilot or left Penelo to watch over the ship, very probably so that he could snoop around in search of whatever had been smuggled on board, like – for example – two vengeful sky pirates.

They heard him stopping outside his own door, and there was silence for a moment as he most likely put his ear to it. Slowly the handle started to depress and the door began to open. When it was about a quarter of the way, Balthier suddenly shot out an arm and threw the door open with such force that Vaan was thrown along after it.

"Whooah!" he yelped as he went staggering forwards, and before he could regain his balance or even look around, Fran had brought down a high kick on top of him, pinning him to the floor with one of her sharp heels.

"Vaan," announced Balthier smugly. "Truly wonderful to make your acquaintance again," he added as he stepped over and knelt down beside him, catching his hands in a length of rope and managing – in spite of Vaan's best attempts to resist – to tie both arms behind his back.

"_Balthier?_" He sounded genuinely surprised, under all the fury. "What're _you _doing here?"

"Oh, just righting a few wrongs," he replied calmly, knotting the ropes securely around Vaan's wrists and then lifting him by the scruff until he sat upright. He stooped over to meet the boy at eye level, looking at him directly as he said very clearly, "I did not much appreciate what you did to me and Fran in Nalbina, Vaan. It wasn't very pleasant." The captive in question just scowled guiltily for a while, evidently considering his response.

"...I thought you told me a pirate's only out for himself and his partner?" he muttered at last, causing Balthier to chuckle.

"_Very _astute," he remarked condescendingly. "That was indeed a lesson I taught you. _However_, I am certain I also imparted to you the advice not to pick fights with things bigger and better than you are."

"_Nor_ to bite the hand that once fed you," Fran added sharply, looking at Vaan in a way that made him very glad she didn't still have her foot on his neck. "Was it not _our _ship you flew for twelvemonth?"

"Yes, I rather think this pretty piece of machinery you fly now was entirely funded by spoils you made in the Strahl, was it not?" Balthier added; however, Vaan was adamant in being unsporting and couldn't be pushed into saying anything more on the matter – he just sulked.

"...Well whattdya gonna do?" he snapped eventually. "Hand me in to the Imperials?"

"_Vaaaan_," Balthier sighed. "Do not take _me _for a rat..." he faltered, trailing off with theatrical forgetfulness. "Rat..." he repeated, tapping a finger against his jaw thoughtfully. "Help me here, Fran."

"Ratsbane," she supplied caustically.

"_That's_ the ticket," he said brightly. "What I mean, is, we are not going to throw you to the snapping jaws of the state, in spite of it being _exactly _what you did to us. We're simply going to be borrowing this nice airship for a little while to get our own one back, seeing as it has been temporarily transferred to an alternative possession." The phrase somehow sounded better than 'stolen'.

"Oh... well... well what about Penelo?" Vaan challenged as Balthier stood up and backed away. "She's still out there, you know. You gonna tie her up too?"

"Only if she asks nicely," he quipped, winking dramatically and dusting himself off as he stood up – running a hand through his hair like a preening bird, as he checked his reflection in a window. "Though I cannot imagine she'd be _anything_ but pleased to see me," he hinted, giving Vaan an implication-laden look before swaggering over to the door – pleased to see a variety of dark emotions already clouding the boy's expression. "She usually is."

* * *

><p><em>End of Chapter 13<em>

* * *

><p>Balthier is a terrible man and it is basically the reason we love him so much =D<p> 


	14. Chapter 14

I have been very very slow at updating, but these things happen, I guess. This project is a real labour of love for me, and this fandom isn't too active, so I don't try to rush updating, I let it come as is natural. I've been on a posting kick and have been meaning to do this chapter for SO LONG, anyway, enough chatter.

* * *

><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 14<em><br>_

_A Pirate does what a Pirate has to do._

* * *

><p>Although Penelo hadn't left Balthier alone with Vaan for more than a few minutes, she still didn't trust what he'd do in that time. His smirk as he returned to her and Fran in the cockpit did not bode well, and she was increasingly worried as he sauntered up to the front of the cockpit and slipped into the pilot's chair.<p>

"You... you weren't too rough on him, did you?" she asked with undisguisable concern. Although she'd let Balthier and Fran exact their revenge on Vaan, and effectively commandeer her ship, she was still worried about her partner, even if he'd had it coming to him. Turning on Balthier and Fran was probably one of Vaan's worst decisions to date, and even now she knew that with his stubborn streak, trying to bring him around to helping Balthier and Fran get the Strahl back would probably take longer than it would to actually get the ship. She'd learnt it was better sometimes to act first and then bring him around afterwards. With time to cool off, it would be easier to explain the situation and get forgiveness than it would to convince him to let Balthier anywhere near the controls of his ship. Frankly she had enough concerns about that herself.

Of course, if it had been anyone else who needed her help, she wouldn't have considered it for a moment, but Balthier and Fran were an exception. They were owed too much to be left like this – flightless, grounded like birds with clipped wings.

"Not at all," answered Balthier smoothly, adding with a more mischievous edge, "I did nothing to the little fink that he didn't have coming."

"You didn't... tell him anything, did you?" she asked awkwardly, and he glanced at her with an implicative look. She was hoping he had not mentioned their pretend-but-not-that-pretend kiss from earlier on; that would _not _sit well with Vaan and she was going to have enough trouble with him as it was.

"Tell him what?" he inquired guilelessly.

"Oh never mind," she muttered, not willing to play games with him to find out what he'd revealed. She'd know sooner or later.

After taking the pilot's seat Balthier started to familiarise himself with the controls. They were already heading southward on a flightpath to Dalmasca, the autopilot running flawlessly, but as soon as he decided he'd grasped all of the essential functions he switched over to manual control. The ship dipped a little at first, then wobbled, and the engines made a strained noise beneath their feet, but he quickly rebalanced in the air and adjusted to the new instruments.

"Uh, are you sure that's necessary?" asked Penelo worrisomely, feeling the drop hit the pit of her stomach at the same time as her dread. "I mean, It'll be a while before we're anywhere near Dalmasca, so you could just leave it on the auto-pilo_oooh_!" she shrieked as Balthier – without warning – revved the engine all the way up and the ship surged forward with an unsettling lurch.

"Being a _sky _pirate, the emphasis rather lays on that particular aspect of _flying_," he explained scathingly, testing out the ship's flight sensitivity by scooping her into a number of deep rolling turns, throwing things off shelves and bringing a solid, Hume-sounding thud from Vaan's cabin. "If I wished to be ferried to and fro without having to participate in the aviatory process, then I would take commercial air-liners," he started to lecture. "In fact, one could probably make excellent business as a highwayman..."

"_Okay_," Penelo interrupted, not wishing to provoke an argument _or _a lesson. "You fly the ship, I get it. No need to get all touchy." As she spoke, the ship rattled through an unexpected patch of turbulence, and in her surprise she let out an unmistakable squeak. Balthier's completely reckless flying her and Vaan's ship across the skies had put her a little on edge, to say the least.

"You seem tense," remarked the key cause of her troubles, turning around to look at her over his shoulder with a wry grin. "Are you quite all right?"

"Eyes on the sky, Balthier!" she yelled back at him, but he just made a disapproving face at her.

"Now do not _fret_ so," he said assuringly, removing a hand from the steering to sling over the back of the seat. "You forget that it was _I_ who taught Vaan to fly in the first place."

"But _he _doesn't ram the engines at full speed, fly with one arm, and then t_urn around to have a chat!_" she trailed off into a shriek, becoming steadily more fraught as the ship swooped suddenly underneath a freighter moving sluggishly ahead of them. Baltheir had only turned half way back to the front before performing this manoeuvre, though, and had only one eye lazily on the sky as the dirty belly of the ship blotted out the daylight above them.

"Your lack of confidence in me is _deeply _flattering," he retorted, tossing his head over his shoulder; suddenly, both eyes flitted briefly back to the front and the ship ploughed into a deep turn, clipping past one of the airliner's escorts by no more than a whisker, inviting an angry siren blare.

"What are you _doing_?" Penelo screamed, pulling herself clumsily back into her seat as her heart pounded in her ears. Fran had possessed the foresight to hold onto something, noticing the escort ship even before her partner had.

"I did not request a _backseat flier_," Balthier said austerely. "If I do, then I shall know to ask you."

"It's _my _ship!" was the entirely accurate retort, although it had little bearing upon Balthier's attitude towards his piloting – not least because he flew his own ship in exactly the same way.

"Quite right you are," he agreed. "However, you have either generously or foolishly entrusted it to my control until the Strahl can be recaptured." He began to pull the ship back into a normal flight path and inched the engines down a little. "We shall find out _which _fairly soon, I imagine," he added with ominous cheer, and Penelo started to look like she was having second thoughts about the entire thing.

"He knows what he is doing," Fran announced in a way that suggested Penelo ought to feel reassured. "Do not allow him to provoke you. He does it only for sport."

"Exactly," Balthier concurred rather shamelessly. "So settle down. The sooner we find the Strahl the sooner this is all over."

"On that note," Fran interjected. "I think we would be wise to make for Bujerba in our pursuit. The isles provide many places to conceal a ship without raising suspicion."

"You suppose that they wish to _hide _her," Balthier countered. "What purpose does that serve? Surely Ba'gamnan seeks to lure us into a trap and return our much-bountied selves to _Her Majesty's _loving arms," he said – with all the appropriate distaste for a woman who quite literally tried to have him killed.

"In which case, they would likely hide her where authorities would not look, but we would," she asserted. "Tis still Bujerba. We have found them there before, and the Marquis has little care for smoking rats out of the continent's outskirts. They have based there often in years past."

"Point made," Balthier conceded. "To Bujerba first; if they can't be found there, at least we may get a lead. In any case, one of you might do to step up and re-coordinate a path for us at some point." He glanced at Fran, who looked at Penelo – it _was _her ship after all, and she its navigator.

"Oh, I don't really mind," she mumbled. "I mean, _you're _the ones doing the flying here. Go ahead, Fran." Nodding acquiescence, the Viera stood and approached the navigation panels, lazily drawing up the fastest route to the airborne continent against the current winds.

"I think I'm gonna talk to Vaan," announced Penelo. "You know, see if I can reason with him." She trotted out of the cockpit, and after the door closed Balthier looked around to share an amused look with Fran, who could only imagine what trouble he'd caused to make him smirk so. Unsurprisingly, no more than a few minutes later Penelo stormed back into the cockpit, slamming the door behind her loudly enough to rattle all the most delicate ship's instruments.

"What the Occurian _heck _have you been saying to him!" she yelled at Baltheir, stomping up to the pilot's seat and its occupant – only stopping herself from giving him a shove because he was still in full control of her ship.

"Nothing at all," Balthier replied nonchalantly. "Anything that Vaan believes based on _my _words is _entirely _inferred." He paused a moment, as if in thought. "He ought to know to take nothing I say seriously anyway," he added.

"But he thinks we've been... we've..." Penelo started furiously, but any kind of appropriate term to describe exactly what Vaan had accused her and Balthier of doing vanished, and her sentence flailed ungracefully; meanwhile, the Galbana's temporary pilot gave her a cheeky sideways glance.

"We've been what?" he taunted. "Scheming and conniving? I believe we got up to plenty of _that_."

"No," she bit.

"Plotting and deceiving?"

"No–"

"How about–" he began, his eyes narrowing with ever-increasing amusement.

"No!" she shouted."You _know _what." She had thought that at the worst Balthier would have told Vaan about the kiss, but when she'd gone in there to reason with him, he seemed to think that she had been doing much, _much _more.

"I am afraid to say I do not _'know what'_," he replied smartly, grinning to himself as Penelo balled her hands into fists and chewed on her lip, cycling through the logistics of exactly how well he'd be able to fly if she was _throttling _him.

"You have had your fun," Fran cut in suddenly, speaking quite clearly to Balthier with a remarkably stern tone. "If you paid as much attention to flying as you do teasing, we would make it to Bujerba a great deal faster."

"_Yes ma'am_," he replied obediently – give or take a drop of sarcasm. Penelo glanced at Fran, thankful for the intervention.

"I'm going to my room for a bit," she murmured, glowering at Balthier as she turned around.

"Sweet dreams," he quipped merrily, smirking to himself as he heard Penelo's frustrated groan.

"You go too far, I think," commented Fran a little while after she had gone.

"Ohh, now Fran," he tutted, "I thought we both agreed there's no such thing." He slowly started edging the engines up to their highest power again.

"She dared to criticise your flying," his partner pointed out, and he mocked surprise.

"You would think me that shallow?" he gasped theatrically. "I am shocked. Not to mention I spoke to Vaan about _absolutely nothing at all _some time before my piloting credibility was drawn into question."

"Even so, t'was unnecessary cruel," Fran remarked judgementally.

"Not necessary, but certainly entertaining," he joshed.

"By your own admission, she's done naught but helped us."

"You know, Fran, I think you _awfully _soft on that girl sometimes," he replied. For reasons he could not himself entertain, Penelo brought out an almost maternal instinct in Fran – whatever maternal instinct she possessed in the first place.

"_Hah_." On the whole, Viera did not laugh in any conventional sense of the term, but Fran's closest equivalent to a chuckle was clear enough to understand.

"Something entertains you, dear one?" he posed pseudo-romantically.

"You think me soft on her?" she echoed scathingly. "The pot calls the kettle black."

"_Fran_," he replied to the accusation with only her name and an arch of his brow, only later adding, "I cannot believe you would _dream _to charge me with such a thing."

"Tis not I who tease her so," she stated.

"Which surely indicates that I am _hoplessly _devoted to her," he parodied.

"Was it not you who insisted to me the complexities of Hume relations?" she pointed out; many times had she found herself subject to lectures from her partner on the emotional nature of his kind – usually as rationalizations for various misdeeds.

"_Other _Humes," he corrected.

"Not you?"

"Not I."

"Oh," remarked Fran quietly, drawing one of her finely-tipped fingers up to tap lightly against her cheek; however, her expression was far from one of defeat. "Very well." The ship did not waver in its flight, as his hands were far to steady to convey any tension, but it was only a matter of waiting before she knew her partner's wits wouldn't hold out any longer against every silent accusation he knew was lodged against him.

"I know the phrase runs _'to wear your heart on your sleeve'_ but I think you are taking this a shade too far," he shot not a minute later. "Just because I decided it was not worth yet _another_ ruined shirt for the sake of concealing my arm to her, does not mean I am about to declare my undying love."

"I don't accuse you of such a thing," Fran replied.

"You _implied _it," he countered. "Now, as far as enjoying the physical attractions of the physically attractive go, I'll not deny myself an admirer of her," he conceded, "and while I _may _have stolen an affection or two from her in a moment of opportunity, you know that is not a habit of mine worth any serious attention." He glanced at her over his shoulder, grinning lopsidedly, and added, "I am rather afraid to say I'm still yours for the keeping."

"I know," she answered assuredly, and he turned back to the front, gazing out at the horizon longingly.

"_You_, however," he broke the silence a little later, heaving a sigh as he begrudgingly accepted this flight was going to be a great deal longer than he wanted it to be, "like her as a _person_."

"For shame," retorted Fran deprecatingly. "I only spare her your merciless humour."

"Whereas you encourage me with others," he pointed out. "Her Royal Haughtiness, for instance."

"She merits it. Penelo does not."

"Granted, but when has _merit _ever been a factor before?" Fran's pause before she responded indicated she'd realized he had a point

"Then we shall agree," she proposed thoughtfully, "that between us there may be one person's full and genuine feelings."

Balthier laughed richly and nodded his head. "That I can agree to."

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><p>While Penelo hadn't exactly planned to fall asleep in her room, when she had started to feel drowsy it did seem like a particularly effective way to <em>not <em>be around Balthier for a while; especially while he was still set on being as irritating as possible for no other reason than he thought it was quite funny.

The only disadvantage was that it meant she was leaving both him and Fran unattended, which was a recipe for trouble if there ever were one. Consequently, being woken up from a nap by being physically thrown across her room a few hours later wasn't very pleasant. Whatever reason Balthier had for throwing her and Vaan's ship into a number of deep, gut-wrenching turns, she thought grumpily as she staggered out of her room and up to the cockpit, it had better be a _damn _good one.

"What's the freakin' emergency?" she yelled as she threw open the door, clinging onto the frame as the ship swerved sharply around again and all of the loose items in the cockpit – which by now were already on the floor – crashed from one side to the other.

"We found the Strahl!" replied Balthier triumphantly, and sure enough Penelo saw the tail end of their ship ripping through the sky ahead of them, with a worrying amount of smoke coming from the engine exhaust.

"That's... great," she replied, managing to grapple her way up to the front of the ship. "Any reason you're flying like you've gone completely nuts?"

"Yes," he snapped. "_Someone _keeps trying to shoot her down."

"Oh..." she murmured, then adding, "wait, what?"

"How else are we meant to ground her?" said Fran curtly. "We cannot outfly her, and I might add they flee because they do not know it is us who pursues them."

"So you want to _blast _her out of the sky?" Balthier yelled frantically. "Even if by some miracle you managed to strike her so that they landed on ground instead of plummeting _thousands of feet down into the ocean, _I am not shooting down my _own _airship!"

"What else are we do do?" Fran countered – this was the closest Penelo had ever seen the two to arguing, which was actually a little unnerving. Fran was braced by the controls to the ship cannons, and Penelo watched as she unrelentingly set another target onto the Strahl again as they approached a low swoop over a chunk of Bujerban land.

It was pure instinct that told her to grab onto something solid as hard as possible when she felt the hum of the ship cannons charge beneath her feet, and seconds later Balthier cursed loudly and plunged the ship into a nose-dive. For a moment they were all in freefall, weightless until the cannons fired, after which Balthier pulled the ship back up again and everything slammed back to the floor.

"Would you _stop _doing that, Fran!" he snarled over his shoulder.

"What _are _we to do!" she snapped back at him – Viera did not shout often, and it was quite notably terrifying. "Chase her forever?"

"I am THINKING!" he bellowed, the Arcadian twang in his voice suddenly resurfacing much thicker than normal. "It's just a damn sight harder when you insist on being so trigger-happy!"

"Penelo." The girl in question was so absorbed in the moment that it took her a moment to realize her name was being called, and Fran was forced to repeat it. "_Penelo_," she summoned, and this time she noticed; in a brief respite from their acrobatic flying she dashed across the ship towards the Viera.

"Yes?" she asked timidly – Fran could be scary enough when she wasn't mad, let alone when she was madder than Penelo had _ever _seen her before.

"You must distract him long enough that I may hit the Strahl." She saw the uncertainty in Penelo's eyes at once. "It is the _only _way," she insisted. "To continue like this would destroy both the Strahl _and _Galbana in the end. For the sake of your own ship, you must divert his attention."

"_How?_" she questioned, clinging onto the wall as the ship began swooping sharply again in an attempt to gain on the Strahl. She couldn't just go up and shove him, because his hands would move too and the ship would swerve anyway, but if she didn't distract him _enough _he'd evade it just the same as before.

"Think of something," said Fran impatiently. "Go _now_. I doubt either ship will last much longer like this, and then both may be lost to the ocean." That at least got Penelo going – sort of lending the Galbana to Balthier and Fran was one thing, but letting them wreck it in the process of trying to bring back their own was too much. She part-sprinted, part-fell up to the very front of the ship, where Baltheir sat, his knuckles white with frustration around the ship's controls. The Strahl wasn't too far ahead of them, and looked to be attempting to cut through a large cluster of mountains flying not to far to their left.

They were on the very outskirts of the Bujerban continent, slicing between tiny islands which clustered around the perimeter of the mainland, but between them was nothing but a long, uninterrupted plunge down into the bay of Balfonheim. The Strahl cut sharply into a valley of mountain-clusters, with Balthier following close behind. Penelo looked desperately at Fran, who simply nodded and started to key in the coordinates for another canon strike..

"Uh, uh..." Penelo muttered, swallowing hard but not feeling the lump in her throat go anywhere. "Balthier?" she questioned, feeling that hum beneath her feet again that meant the canons were getting ready to fire.

"What?" he snapped furiously, jerking his head slightly to look at her from an angle, keeping a careful eye on the Strahl ahead of them.

"Now!" Fran called out.

"Uhhhaaaarg!" Penelo screamed, hating herself for only having _one _idea in her head – it was stupid, but as she lacked any alternatives, she had to take it. She clapped both hands around Balthier's face and crushed hers against it, lip and tooth, as an energy blast ripped from the cannons towards their target.

Her timing had been perfect; they only needed to be in-line for the second that the cannons fired, and for that fraction of a moment she'd shocked him, and the ship had remained straight. A heartbeat later he made an unintelligible noise against her own mouth and pulled away in horror, twisting the ship into a violent spin, but it was too late. The glossar-charged bullet had already ploughed straight into one of the Strahl's engines.

It ship pinwheeled into a sloppy emergency landing, catching a mountain ridge with one of the wings and nearly rolling over before finally smashing to the ground on a small isolated island, smoke pouring out of every opening.

"Oh _gods,_" Balthier murmured, turning the Galbana into a fast descent and circling over the wreckage of his beloved ship.

"I'm really sorry, Balthier," Penelo said shakily, guiltily wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. He was – unusually enough for him – absolutely speechless. They were almost on the ground when he finally spoke.

"I think that must have been most underhanded thing you have ever done in your life, Penelo," he said vacantly.

"I had to," she replied shamefully. "I'm sorry."

"Oh no, congratulations are in order," he announced with an icy sarcasm. "You're finally a sky pirate."

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><p><em>End of Chapter 14<em>

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><p>I hope there are still some readers hanging around that might get some enjoyment out of this. Thanks for sticking with it!<p> 


	15. Chapter 15

What madness is this! Less than months between updates! I started reading the next chapter and then snowballing effect had me editing through all the rest (about six), the result being faster updates. Double update for the win!

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 15<p>

_A Pirate never runs from a good old-fashioned fight._

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><p>"Shall we examine your handiwork, ladies?" said Balthier rather cattily to his female companions, after landing the Galbana as close as possible to the crash site of the much-abused Strahl.<p>

Fran said nothing, knowing that the best course of action was to let him exercise his temper until it eventually improved. He had a reason for making slights on this occassion, after all – the Strahl was _his _child more than hers, and it was currently in a smoking heap some couple of hundred metres from them,

"Uhh... I'm gonna go get Vaan," said Penelo awkwardly, somewhat wisely choosing to flee the scene.

"As if I didn't have enough irritations in my life," added Balthier bitterly, but while he and Fran made their way to the landing hatch, he felt her reaching for him, so slowed to let her rest a hand on his shoulder – consolingly, he assumed.

"She's has been through worse," she told him. "Tis better a broken ship in our hands than an airborne one in others'."

"So you keep on telling me," he said, sounding unashamedly dejected.

"All will be well," she insisted – for once feeling the differences in their age. Balthier sighed, a child with his favourite toy broken, and kicked open the landing hatch, after which they both noted the noise of Vaan bursting out of his quarters and chasing down the length of the ship, with Penelo following behind apologetically.

"Hey!" Vaan barked as he bounded down the corridor towards them. "HEY!"

"_Music_ to my ears," Balthier ground out, gritting his teeth and taking a deep breath as he slung his weight against the frame of the doorway and paused – Vaan would always chase him farther than he could be bothered to run, so it was often better to give in before he wasted his breath. Better to let the boy waste his.

"_Huuaa–" _came the sound of Vaan breathing in. _"Iiiii can't believe youd' do this to me Balthier it's not fair I didn't even do anything that bad, I mean you were the one who made Ashe mad so it's not my fault if she wants t- and you got Penelo to help you as well? You can't do that she's MY partner and you just- and what were you saying about her how could you make me think that you'd, you'd, just don't- oh and by the way WHAT WAS WITH YOUR FLYING, I can't believe the engines are all still working you musta been going faster than a-"_

"Vaan, may I stop you there," interjected Balthier, and the torrent of noise diminished.

"Why, what have you got to say for yourself?" he glowered.

"Nothing, I just wanted to stop you there," replied. "If you'd like to talk about getting square I would consult with your partner – she is half-responsible for shooting down my airship, and much abused me in the process."

"What's _that_ mean?" Vaan questioned sulkily.

"Ask her yourself, I wouldn't like to hazard being around her lest she throw herself at me again," he remarked with very clear and obvious malice, only managing a smile when he saw the thunder cloud Vaan's face.

"We should make for the Strahl," Fran suggested once her partner had exacted his revenge, dropping through the Galbana's hatch onto barren Bujerban land, Balthier following her soon after. She noted the fresh air thankfully seemed to restore him a little, to say nothing of the pressing threat lurking somewhere inside their ship.

"Keep that bow ready," he warned as they started to approach the steaming wreck of the Strahl. "It'll take more than a crash to knock Ba'gamnan's jaw out of joint." As temporarily 'upset' as he was with her choices regarding the grounding of their ship, she was still his partner against any enemy, which had to supercede anything and _everything_ else for their partnership to work.

"What will you do?" she questioned, as he was still without a weapon of his own, and hadn't brought any of Vaan or Penelo's outside with him; while he'd fistfought many times – he was occasionally known to box – but going up against Ba'gamnan unarmed was better known as a suicide mission, or more specifically, a _messy _suicide mission.

"I was rather planning on finding one of my guns before they found _us_," he explained without the paralytic fear that ought to accompany such a statement. "Most likely they will come out, and that's when I shall go in."

"I will act as a lure," she stated; Ba'gamnan and his family were never a foe to be trifled with, but she would be able to manage them for the time it took him to find a weapon.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replied casually. "This is, after all, _your_ grand idea."

"She'll fly," Fran retorted, keeping her ground. "She always does."

"Well, in which case we better get on with it." He flexed a little, and then started to sprint towards the Strahl, quickly rounding it to stay out of sight, as she approached at a slower and more cautious pace. Upon reaching the wreck of his beloved ship, Balthier wasted no time in scaling one of the sides and making his way up to the top of the cabin – no sign of Ba'gamnan yet, so he had to wait until his troupe inevitably appeared. The last thing he wanted was to get stuck in there with the lot of them and no weapon.

Fortunately he was not delayed long, as a stream of rather impressive curses and the sound of crunching metal soon announced the bangaas' arrival to the scene; although, much to Balthier's dismay, they opted to saw their way out of the Strahl with the boss's bladed weapon – the aptly named Ba'gangsaw' – rather than use anything so cultured as a _door_.

He counted Ba'gamnan and two sibling-allies climbing out of the ship, who sighted Fran immediately and began to charge towards her with a number of snorts and snarls – none the wiser to his presence so far. Though Fran was more than capable, he knew it wouldn't do to waste any time and quickly dropped into the ship through a smashed out window. If the last sibling who once traditionally fought with the gang was inside, he'd manage alone, but the ship proved to be empty, and Ba'gamnan lacking an ally – probably moved onto pursuits that were less insane. Or he was dead, which was probably more likely knowing their family.

"It be the Viera!" one of Ba'gamnan's cronies bellowed when they were close enough to recognise Fran – their approach slowed by her onslaught of arrows.

"Then Bal'flear cannae be far!" Ba'gamnan cheered, snapping his jaws greedily. They were just beginning to close in on Fran when a cluster of shot hit him in the back of the head, kicking the bangaa forwards.

"Closer than you think, Ba'gamnan!" called Balthier, standing atop the Strahl brandishing a very happily reclaimed weapon. Before the Ba'gamnan could scramble to his feet, Fran caught him with an arrow in the shoulder, and Baltheir slid down the battered panelling of the Strahl. He reloaded and fired again, striking Ba'gamnan in the back as Fran hit him from the front – focusing their efforts while they were still out of range, because once they were up close and personal they'd be in histerritory.

"You know, I don't much appreciate what you've done with my ship," Balthier remarked as he unloaded another round into the Bangaa, who had yet to get within range of either of them with his rather threatening weapon. The taunt obviously drew their opponent's attention, as he decidedly turned towards Balthier and began to charge at him.

"You'll not be needin' it where I'm sendin' ye!" he snarled, lunging at Balthier with his whirling weapon outstretched; Balthier sidestepped out of the way of the Ba'gangsaw and quickly grabbed Ba'gamnan by the arm that held it. He pressed the barrel of his gun against the bangaa's elbow and fired, sending out a spatter of scales and blood, accompanied by a furious howl. He dodged wild swipes from Ba'gamnan's maimed arm as he stuffed another shot into his weapon, but in his haste to reload allowed himself to be grabbed with the bangaa's good arm.

He quickly cocked the hammer and aimed downward at one of the Ba'gamnan's small bent legs. He took a split second to flash a malicious grin at the reptilian hunter, then pulled the trigger. The shot ripped through the Bangaa's leg and sent him rolling onto his side, howling in pain and releasing Balthier. However, by that point his two siblings were charging straight for him. As one swiped out in an attempt to recapture him, an arrow hit her right in the centre of her palm.

"Thank you, Fran!" he cried out as he dashed backwards, but almost stumbled into Ba'gamnan's brother, who was quite literally trying to stab him in the back. He turned with a clumsy momentum and caught the bangaa in the snout with the barrel of his weapon, then used the moment of shock to kick him in the side and run away, desperate for more distance.

As difficult as it was to reload a gun while running as fast as he could, Balthier did the best he could with a furious ex-bounty-hunter-turned-airship-thief on his tail, which was not very well at all, but he was fortunate – just as it seemed he would be caught up on, the air around them began to smell suddenly of electrolytes; he had no sense for mist like Fran, but knew what was coming. He stopped running and began to reload at a reasonable pace, while the air around the bangaa condensed and then rendered itself apart, causing a fierce flare of magic to scour across him.

Balthier glanced at the Galbana, noticing Penelo giving him a wave with one hand while she held a measure in the other. Once he finally got his neglected weapon to load, he planted the barrel low – high shots were too predictable and easy to block, not to mention Bangaa blood was _notoriously _hard to bleach out of things, so keeping splatter low was always a concern.

He fired into the young bangaa's legs then flipped around his gun and slammed the handle into his jaw. He heard footsteps behind him, but before Balthier could even turn to identify the source Vaan charged into their enemy with a battle-cry.

"This doesn't mean we're cool!" he yelled as he fought.

"I wouldn't _dream _of it," Balthier answered. "Duck!" Vaan – having learned the hard way – hit the floor as Balthier unloaded another cluster of shot into the bangaa, who flew backwards and hit the floor – thankfully, he stayed there. They turned to check on their partners, who were identified a little way off making a lot of trouble for Ba'gamnan's sister, who lay in a arrow-pelted heap, smoking like a roasted hog. This only left Ba'gamnan himself, who lumbered with a wounded leg and arm, but was still putting up a fair fight.

Now with ample space in which to work, Balthier carefully reloaded and returned his attentions to the boss, who staggered around swinging the aptly named 'Ba'gangsaw' left right and centre; he slowly began to advance, firing shots as quickly as he could load them, Fran doing more or less the same, and Vaan did them the favour of keeping the bangaa in close combat, as Penelo fired off magik as she saw fit. Finally he succumbed, but Ba'gamnan was a tough old boot, and persisted in spitting and cursing on the floor even when he was beaten.

"Don't you think you ought to quit while you're ahead, Ba'gamnan?" Balthier suggested when they were within earshot. "Forgive me," he amended quickly, "while you _have _a head."

"Curse th'wretched day ye ever walked tha' lands of Ivalice, pirate!" the wounded Bangaa cussed, snorting and spitting blood.

"I heard '_why_ _I'd love to go diving in the Bay of Balfonheim, Balthier_'," the pirate remarked. "Is that what you heard, Fran?" He turned to her in question, while she only noted that at least his spirits were lifting. The last thing she wanted on what would be a difficult journey back to port was a sulk.

"Jus' kill me an' be done with it!" he snarled, and Balthier leaned over with a tut.

"What kind of barbarians do you take us for, friend?" he said, his words sharp. "Just because we _can _kill you does not mean that we _will_."

"Then what?" spat their defeated foe.

"Vaan," he said with a careless air, "would you fancy taking him?" Leaving Ba'gamnan to Vaan and Penelo had the advantage of dealing with them without the need for any actual legwork; he and Fran were not bounty hunters, but Vaan and Penelo would happily run along to the nearest prison and collect a pretty reward for their trouble. Not to mention, it had already been made painstakingly clear what would happen if he and Fran got anywhere near the authorities. Again.

"Uh, sure... you mean it?" Vaan murmured bemusedly.

"To the word," Balthier answered. "I care not for a new pair of bangaa-skin shoes."

"Gee... thanks," replied Vaan, pacified by the offer – the reward on Ba'gamnan's head would not be trifling, and with the money troubles that Balthier and Fran had it seemed unusually generous that they'd turn the gil over.

"Well, I understand that you have such a talent for running to the authorities like a lap dog that it's practically second nature by now," Balthier contributed aloofly, and Vaan's expression immediately soured.

"Hey!" he snapped, at which point Penelo ran up with ropes and chains for locking up the unconscious villains and ferrying them to Nalbina.

"Can't you let it go already, Balthier. You got even didn't you?" she interrupted, at which Balthier fixed her with an extremely critical look.

"Beg pardon, but do you call _that_ even?" he said incredulously, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder at the wreck of the Strahl. "I should think it will be days before she flies again, and that's merely getting to Balfonheim without taking a one-way trip to the ocean floor."

"Well I'm pretty sure it's not _Vaan's_ fault the Strahl was stolen," she said forthrightly. "Not to mention he was locked up when she crashed too."

"Of course," Balthier consented. "It's _your _fault she crashed. What was that devious move you pulled on me again?"

"Uhh, you know... I think I forgot," she evaded.

"My, I didn't realise it was such a forgettable experience," he retorted. "I can remind you of it if you so wish." He stepped towards her and she hastily stuck out an arm to keep him away.

"Stop it," she told him firmly. "Don't you even _try_, Balthier."

"I don't know what you could mean," he replied with a smirk, and seemed to be enjoying Vaan's suspicions, as well as the petulant glare in their direction. "My thanks to you both for your assistance, it was invaluable," he said graciously, and then quickly took hold of Penelo's outstretched hand, dipped into a low bow and pressed a kiss against her knuckles.

"_Do _enjoy your flight to Dalmasca," he taunted, backing away before she could hit him, which, judging by her expression, she would definitely like to do. "Hadn't we better go examine our ship now, Fran?"

"Farewell, Penelo," Fran spoke obliviously – as if she existed a totally different plane of observation to Balthier and his games, like a bird overhead looking down on ants.

"_Bye_," Penelo snapped, turning to go, while Vaan stood perfectly still and looked at Balthier with a mix of fury, confusion and jealousy.

"I will kiss your hand if you so wish, Vaan," he added cheekily, but before the boy could launch himself at Balthier in a primitive fury, Penelo grabbed him by the arm and dragged him off. Balthier grinned with a job well done, but Fran only gave him a caustic look as they walked towards their ship.

"Now, now, Fran," he said aloofly. "You cannot give me _that_ look. One malicious kiss deserves another, don't you think?"

"So be it," she remarked, sounding totally unconvinced.

"_You _and I still have a little difference to make up though," he stated, gesturing to the ship as they approached. "You _shot _my ship. It's at least two million in repairs alone."

"Most of the damage was not mine," she replied unhesitatingly. "I struck only one engine. Tis the ruined bodywork that will cost us, and was not _I _who crashed her so clumsily."

"Ba'gamnan however, is most unfortunately not made of thousand gil pieces," he retorted. "So now we've a pretty problem on our hands. We must make for Balfonheim."

"You think that wise?" she asked.

"_Well_," he began dramatically. "We have to fix this ship enough that it will fly, land it somewhere that the authorities won't immediately impound and hack her up for parts, then we must find Nono in all this mess and equip him to carry out the necessary repairs... and _that," _he said with great emphasis, "is the easy part. I feel it entirely necessary that I retire to the upstairs room of the Whitecap with a _very _large pipe and contrive of a solution to our numerous problems."

"I dread to ask," she replied forebodingly.

"Then I shall spare you," he said briskly. "For now, best to find out what we have on our hands, lest we count our chocobos of misfortune before they hatch." They clambered into the Strahl through the new hole that Ba'gamnan made getting out; Fran headed towards the engine room while he went to examine the state of the controls in the cockpit. However, he'd barely sat down when his partner's voice echoed up from inside the ship.

"Balthier," she called, and when no reply came immediately she repeated herself; not raising the volume of her voice, but making the tone more persistent. "_Balthier."_

"What is it?" he yelled, getting to his feet with a jolt and striding in the direction of the engine room. "Problems?"

"Of a sort," she responded, and then without warning at least four birds burst through the engine-room hatch and flapped past him, cooing manically and filling the air with dust. Balthier screamed rather unglamorously, stumbled backwards and then hit the wall as the doves flew frantically around the narrow corridor, rebounding off the walls and ceiling.

"You were right," Fran called up from below. "We did miss some of the doves."

"I can _see_ that!" he barked, swatting at the birds with his hand as he backed away, retreating to the relative safety of the cockpit and slamming the door behind him. He reasoned that maybe they'd wear themselves out, and could then be captured without quite so much fuss. It wasn't like they were going anywhere soon. For that reason, he was arm-deep into the main steering controls an hour or two later, wires splayed everywhere, when Fran finally appeared.

"Ah, hello. What of the birds?" he asked her. "I thought if I left them to it, the buggers might tire eventually."

"Hah," she breathed scathingly. "Our ship lies in ruins, and you ask me what of the _birds_."

"Those creatures might get us gil enough to grease palms in Balfonheim," he pointed out. "Although nowhere near enough to cover us fully, but we'll need a little to prepare ourselves for Arcades."

"Arcades?" she echoed suspiciously. "Is that not the last place we want to be?"

"You'd think," he said bluntly, then returned without elaboration to working on the control panel wiring, most of which had suffered terribly in Ba'gamnan's Neanderthal attempts to hotwire the ship.

"You surely do not want to return for the will?" she pressed. "T'was dangerous enough last you escaped."

"The _will_ I still have with me," he replied, reaching out from under the panel and patting one of his packs proudly. "It's the secret it holds – what'ere it is, Larsa would send a fleet to Dalmasca at the drop of the hat, then cause utter _chaos_ within his own palace just to try and get hands on it."

Fran sighed, and crossed her arms. "He wants it," she began dryly.

"–So I want it _more_," he concluded with a little chuckle. "You know me too well."

"You think it valuable enough to cover costs on the Strahl?" she speculated.

"I think anything worth that much to an Emperor ought to cover our worries more than comfortably," he replied. "Goodness knows, there may even something left over for _us _at the end of the day," he added sarcastically, and having reached some state of satisfaction with the wiring, swung out from under it and sat up in his seat. "That'll hold us for now." He turned back to Fran. "How goes work down below?"

"Dismal," she replied succinctly. "I shall need your assistance."

"Why, what's the damage?" he asked with concern; they'd blown out one of the main engines, but the damage shouldn't have been too complex – if _Fran _could not make anything of it then he wasn't likely to do much better.

"_Nesting," _stated his partner rather tersely. "Your escaped birds have taken up nest in the engine cavities, and I cannot get to work on them." She was aware that he'd insist on the things not being harmed, as – aside from his soft streak – they could not be sold for as much when they were dead.

"_My _escaped birds?" he repeated scathingly. "Since when were they mine?"

"Since it was _your_ idea to take them, and _your_ doing that had them freed in the ship." Balthier was silent for a moment.

"Oh, all right." He stood up obediently and started to roll back his sleeves; he knew how to pick his battles with Fran, which most importantly meant knowing when he ought to unconditionally surrender. "I better get on with it."

Noise overhead had informed them of the Galbana's departure almost an hour ago, so if they could not get the ship working then they'd be in a tight spot indeed; however, Balthier maintained that if they could get the Bahamut going again, they'd certainly get their _own_ ship airborne. At least the winds from Bujerba to Balfonheim were favourable at this time of the year, so they wouldn't need to fight the weather on top of everything else.

Nevertheless, it still took the best part of two days to get the Strahl running again – although half of one of those days was entirely occupied by Balthier capturing the remaining doves, during which some rather colourful cursing was to be heard, including a number of phrases Fran was sure he must have picked up recently in Arcades, as she'd never chanced upon them in his vocabulary before.

Once the birds _had_ been captured, it was a simple matter of getting rid of the nests and then carrying out some 'inventive' repairs until the engines would run. They were both aware that it was hardly the most stable or manoeuvrable of repair jobs, but it was the best they could do given the circumstances, and would probably get them to Balfonheim in one piece.

_Probably_.

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><p>End of Chapter 15<p>

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><p>A pissy, bitchy Balthier is <em>always <em>a fun Balthier.


	16. Chapter 16

Update? Update!_  
><em>

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 16<p>

_A Pirate knows that from the bottom the only way is up._

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><p>The Strahl rattled into the aerodrome at Balfonheim in a fashion that could only really be described as a controlled crash<em>; <em>several pieces fell from the bodywork, half of the engines kicked out with a frightening bang, and the others quietly poured out smoke into the cramped bay. The occupants had to disembark by leaping from the doorless gangway to the floor, because the steps were at the bottom of the sea somewhere between Balfonheim and Bujerba.

Upon hitting the floor, Balthier let out a sigh of relief he never thought he'd feel leaving his airship for solid ground, and turned toward his partner.

"I think that flight aged me ten years, Fran," he murmured wearily, and half-looked it, though it was largely due to a lack of sleep. Neither of them had been able to rest easy while they were still potentially stranded on Bujerban lands, and the flight had been long, difficult, and _very _slow. The only consolation was that at least it they were home again. Sort of.

The moment the Strahl was recognised over Balfonheim, of course, their communication system started spitting out irate crackles and hisses; it was broken, so nothing could be understood through it, but at least they knew their presence had not been missed.

"It's hard being popular," he'd remarked as they descended to the tuneful static blaring through the speaker. Landing had been far from easy, considering the ship had the steering of a drunk Seeq. Then again, the engines were running at half-capacity if they were being _optimistic_, not to mention all the main controls were severely impaired, so it was hardly surprising that the ship flew badly. Neither was the armed guard waiting for them in the aerodrome.

"Gentlemen," Balthier said calmly as he and Fran were surrounded by a number of coughing and spluttering guards, who didn't appreciate the smoke the Strahl had been emitting, or the danger of having a large piece of the ship fall off on top of them. "Let's not be uncivilised. We're all outlaws here."

"Hah! That's rich coming from _you_!" yelled one unidentifiable guard. He was probably referring to Balthier and Fran's occasional habit of attacking _other _pirates that strayed too far into what they considered their territory, and making off with anything of value while they were at it.

Yeah! Some of us still stick to the code, Balthier!" another of the young men shouted – for some reason that was beyond Balthier's comprehension, a great number of pirates who claimed residence in Balfonheim saw fit to subscribe to a set of laws for their own kind. Then to add insult to injury, the enterprising individuals who took up the role of mayor to Balfonheim also increasingly sought to charge levies, even taxes to long-term residents. Any more and it would turn into a civilised society, so far gone were the days of enlightened rule under Reddas.

Of course, Balthier was opposed to the entire thing. It was to _escape_ the burdens of society that he'd turned to this lifestyle in the first place, and he hardly intended to get dragged back down. Laws and taxes were for bad or stupid pirates, and he was neither.

"I always considered it more of a set of _guidelines_," he remarked casually, neither his nor his companion's composure wavering. "The point remains, however, that you'll not get so much of a gil out of us with _those _things." He gestured towards the row of weapons disdainfully. "Presuming your employer desire the contents of our pockets in his possession, not the contents of our skulls, I would put away the toys before someone gets hurt."

Fran stepped forwards slowly, advancing on a man who held out a short sword closer than any of the others. Suddenly, faster than the eye could follow, she kicked it out of his hand and sent the weapon skittering loudly across the floor.

"In case it wasn't clear, that means all of _you_," Balthier added ominously. While they wouldn't stand much chance at beating their way through an entire unit of guards at close-range, they would certainly take at good few with them if they were going down fighting. If able to confront the men on their own terms, they would have mowed through the group in minutes – there weren't many in Balfonheim who could beat them in an honest fight, and even less could do so in a _dis_honest one.

"So, if you'll just run along and let the fellow upstairs know we are willing to do business with him, it'd be much appreciated," he explained condescendingly. "As you can see, our ship is very much in need of repairs, so we shan't be going anywhere in a hurry." He waved a hand carelessly in gesture at the wreckage.

"We will speak with your leader," added Fran, slowly crossing her arms over her midriff as she fixed the unarmed man with her famed Viera ice-cold glare. It was a statement, not a request, and the guards knew it. So, no more than ten minutes later, she and Balthier sat in a luxuriously decorated office in the company of the fellow who ran the aerodrome: a Hume of Bujerban origin named Maxell.

"So, pirates of piracy," he sarcastically addressed the two after they'd taken a seat, stuffing fingerfuls of greasy black tobacco into a pipe. "This one better be good. Better than the rest, at least."

"It's quite simple, Max," Balthier said coolly. "We need birth in your aerodrome."

"I can well see that," he sighed, packing down the tobacco and fumbling for matches. "I'm waiting for your reason as to why I shouldn't have my men run down there now and rip the remains of your pitiful airship up for parts."

"Well, for one it wouldn't be very nice of you, and for two, most of those parts are _broken_. You can see she's in no shape to fly," Balthier retorted, adopting an air of relaxation, although it was only a paper-thin veneer.

"The cost to repair those engines for sale would be greater than what you'd make selling them," Fran pointed out. "To take possession of the Strahl in payment of our debts would _lose _you money."

Maxell chuckled and clamped the end of his pipe between his teeth. "It serves you both for once to be poor as dirt, I see." Balthier's expression soured; his and Fran's state of affairs was a particularly sore point when they were not faring too well on the sea of fate.

"It would seem," he replied tersely. "However, we've loot enough to cover the essentials for now."

"Oh? And then what?" Max persisted. "Go off on another ill-fated pursuit? Return to me in five months even poorer and feeding me this self-same talk." At one point he and Balthier had been on friendly terms, but their escalating quarrels over perfectly reasonable – or unreasonable, depending on the perspective – outstanding debts had somewhat ruined their working relationship.

"You do well to presume less," Balthier bit. "We are not through with our current business, and I assure you the profits will be _more_ than ample."

"A triumphant return for you?" Max jeered, at which his company scowled.

"To return one has to have left in the first place, friend," he said sharply. Balfonehim could be a cruel place. Unlike Arcades, where social trends stretched across centuries, the port was a volatile environment where almost anything could happen in a few weeks. For those with the misfortune of experiencing a bad patch of business it was all they could do to stop the undertakers actively building a coffin around them. There had certainly been a number of headstones for Balthier and Fran after they vanished following the Bahamut.

"Our finances are not a worry of yours," Fran spoke up, thinking it better to swoop in before her partner got any more aggravated. "You will give us birth and provisions for the moogles, or you will not. I imagine you have already made up your mind which it will be."

"Well put," Balthier interjected. "So lets be on with it, Max. Although, I'd add that _if_ you decline, you shall have a great deal of trouble getting the Strahl back out of your aerodrome_... _some minimal repairs at least, or perhaps a tow-ship," he suggested, his tone an insulting façade of helpfulness.

"And you won't assist me, of course," he glowered, striking a match and lighting his pipe at last.

"Naturally."

"So... it'll tax my pocket to do anything but what you _want_ me to do, correct?" Puffs of bluish smoke curled out from between his lips as he spoke, his weathered eyes peering out from underneath wiry eyebrows.

"Funny how that is," replied Balthier smugly, sitting forwards as he unhooked one of his hands from his belts and held it out across the room. "Do we have a deal?"

"You know my ways. Am I to get my gil?" he demanded, fixing the pirate with a long, hard look as he sucked on his pipe thoughtfully.

"I give you my word, Max," he replied, sounding almost honest for once.

"Then what choice do I have," he sighed, taking Balthier's hand and reluctantly shaking it. "But I swear to gods, if you cross me again I will have your head for this, Balthier."

"I'm rather afraid you shall have to join the queue," he quipped, standing with Fran and following her out.

* * *

><p>"Are you to be leaving me?" Balthier questioned coolly, tucking a slim cigarette behind his ear and lolling back against a cushioned seat in the whitecap tavern.<p>

"I will," was Fran's detached answer; her senses were too delicate to willingly tolerate smoke for long, much less the thick, resin-soaked matter her partner favoured.

"I shall'nt imagine I'll be long, but it must be done," he said resolutely. "We've a pretty task on our hands, and I seem to be severely lacking inspiration of recent."

"I do not question your ways," she said with understated faith.

"I know. So very enlightened of you," he chuckled, shooting her a crooked smile as he flicked the cigarette out from behind his ear and lit it on a match, inhaling deeply on the first drag and then clipping it between two fingers and letting his hand fall to the table. "Are you sure you won't stay?" he asked politely, but she shook her head. "I do so hate the company here."

"I've much work to be getting on with, even now," she said reservedly. "There's more to be discovered on the nature of that seal."

"All right then," he relinquished, inhaling again on the cigarette and blowing the smoke upwards; if more set upon the activity, he might have bothered with a pipe, but as he only intended to take a short time to relax it was easier and quicker to smoke papers. "I shall try to have a master plan concocted by the time you return, then," he joked, coughing into his hand as the acrid smoke tickled and thn burned the back of his throat.

He may have joked, but really it wasn't much more than a measure to prevent panic setting in. After persuading Maxell to house their ship – just about – he'd set off to find Nono and his team, who thankfully agreed to work now and accept payment later. They were in deep over their heads, both in gil and promises, and that stress was showing in him. His choice to smoke reflected as much. Fran knew that it was a coping mechanism; that if he could not retreat a quiet, restful place for a short while and drop all pretences of confidence, to stop the performance, he'd risk breaking down. He was still young to her at times, nowhere near as stable as he would like to claim, and desperate for a way to cope when troubles weighed too heavily on him – but she had never expected any less.

She left him in peace and went out into the town, restocking their weaponry with whatever pitiable loot they had between them. Just before he had taken to the Whitecap, they'd gone together to speak with a Bangaa known to lurk around the Magiks stall on the high street.

As unpleasant as _certain bounty-hunting individuals_ of his kind were, Galingal was as honest as an individual could _be_ in Balfonheim, and knew more about seals and glyphs than anyone in the port; the crack-pot snake-oil salesman had some points of knowledge that even Arcadian scholars would be keen to get their hands on. However, even _he_ was a little baffled at first by the will when they presented it to him. As Fran had predicted it _did _contain a glyph, but it was almost invisible – hidden under the Solidor emblem authenticating the document – and a particularly complex one at that.

"_Tha' only thing it could passably be is ah' blood seal," _he'd told them in the end – once they graced his palm with a few hundred gil pieces, of course. _"An' I ain't never seen one ah' this kin'... but nothin' else it cae be."_

"_A blood seal?"_ Balthier enquired. _"So we need to spill blood on it?"_

"_Oh no, not jus' any," _answered their advisor_. "Not somthin' with the magik so intricate as this." _He shook his head sharply, and the rings in his dreadlocks clinked._ "Far too com'plex."_

"_Then, the sealer's blood?_" Fran suggested, at which Galingal had nodded his head jerkily, turning the parchment over in his hands several times.

"_Mos' likely."_ He nodded again, and then brought the paper up close to one eye and held it up towards the light. That information was no help to them at all, as the document was signed Vayne Solidor, who was several years dead and would therefore be most difficult to procure blood from. _"But... the blood of kin could do it."_

"_Oh? A close relative?"_ A little optimism dared to return to Balthier's tone; their bounty was not entirely out of sight just yet.

"_Blood sealin' be a tricky art,"_ the Bangaa explained. _"T'will be rough at the best ah' times. Sure, a close relation might likely do it,"_ he said decidedly. _"Parent, child, sibling... the magik cannae always tell the difference."_

"_That is all we need to know. Our gratitude is forever yours, Galingal,"_ said Balthier graciously, adding a few more coins to the Bangaa's hand, and carefully taking back the will and returning it to a small cylinder for safekeeping. _"You've been of tremendous help."_

"_Jus' see me back a bit of what you find' on it, Balthier,"_ he snorted. _"Ain't no small thing Vayne 'imself goes making blood seals over."_

"_We hope so, friend."_ He'd murmured in return. _"We certainly hope so."_

Left alone, Balthier took another slow drag on the cigarette and slumped further into his corner, tapping the fingers of his free hand to the rhythm of a popular Arcadian folk song, and turning his thoughts to the problem at hand. There were a number of pieces that all needed fitting together to pull this plan to fruition, and while he was as good as any at thinking on his feet, every once in a while his mind demanded a static moment.

He drew another breath on the cigarette, settling his face into his free hand and staring off into space. When it at last burned out, he absent-mindedly stubbed it out on the table and dropped the end into an empty glass. He did not choose to smoke often – a hangover from his days of teenage rebellion in Arcades – but favoured a mixture that was soaked in resin of god-knows-what, collected from the Golmore forest, and produced upon him a far more powerful effect than traditional blends.

He was in fact so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he didn't even notice when a broad-set Hume with a great number of daggers slung about his waist, stood up from his seat and crossed the room of the tavern towards him.

"What're _you_ lookin at?" he very clearly barked, but even so, Balthier only realized he was being spoken to after the general murmur of voices dropped to a deathly silence.

"Oh?" he said bemusedly, looking up at the Hume and furrowing his brow a little. "Can I help?"

"You been starin at me all night," the pirate accused viciously. "You got a _problem?_"

Balthier blinked a few times and rubbed his fingertips lightly over closed eyelids; he'd lost track of the time a little, so hadn't a clue how long 'all night' may have been – it could've been a half hour, it could've been two.

"I assure you I was doing absolutely nothing of the kind," he said uninterestedly, brushing the man off without even rising to face him. This evidently appeared to the man as a slight, because he took another ominous step forward and bunched his scar-ridden hands into fists.

"You was staring," he stated. _"_If I _says _you was staring. _You was staring_._" _Balthier rubbed one of his temples and tilted his head askew, looking up at the pirate quizzically. He thought it better not to correct his language, as that seemed to be the one universal way to turn an argument into a fight.

"I was merely lost in thought," he explained politely, drumming his fingertips against the table irately, the speed slowly increasing until it was a constant patter.

"You callin' me a liar?" the other pirate very clearly threatened, but before he could take another step Balthier was on his feet and met him eye to eye.

"See here, I've called you nothing of the sort, but if you so desperately _wish_ to be slandered I'm sure I can spare you a few choice profanities – as you would insist upon incessantly _bothering_ me like this!" he said entirely within the same breath, and didn't pause to await the man's reaction before continuing. "I might call you a _slob_ based on your attire, or a _cheapskate_ on the quality of your knives." He gestured towards the man's weapon belt, but did not slow in his speech. "I ought to call you _fool_, as you would evidently spend your gil on a dozen poor weapons instead of a single decent one – or perhaps a _narcissist_ for the fact that you convinced yourself it had to be you I was focusing on." He paused only for a necessary breath.

"What I will do, I assure you, is call you a _damn idiot _for starting a quarrel with someone bearing absolutely no interest in you or this petty matter, so I'll finish it before it starts by pre-emptively winning the fight we're about to have."

The Hume's eyes crossed slightly as he tried to keep up, but hadn't got much further than realizing he'd been insulted in a number of colourful ways when he was very suddenly punched in the face. Reeling to one side, he was too shocked to do anything but understand he was about to be punched again; by the third time he was struck he hadn't the lucidity to remember why he was being hit at all, and the final blow simply ensured he was unconscious before he even hit the ground.

Balthier dusted his hands together and then sat back down, and was just settling back into his thoughts when he suddenly recalled something he missed. Bouncing back to his feet, he patted down the unconscious pirate, skipping over the worthless cutlery strapped around his waist, until he found his purse.

Shaking the soft leather pouch to hear the gil clink, Balthier then tucked it into his own packs before draping himself back over his seat once more. He aloofly ignored the ring of eyes watching him and the eerie silence that had fallen over the room, and instead hummed a popular Bujerban ballad and attempted to recover his train of thought. If there was to be any hope for them by morning, he had to come up with some kind of a couldn't let himself forget that once Nono had completed the repairs on the Strahl, should he and Fran fail to meet payment in good time the aerodrome-boss Maxell would be expected to attempt to take ownership of her to cover their debts to him.

Should this treasure-hunt fail to materialize, they could in fact lose a great deal more than gil.

They could lose _everything_.

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><p>End of Chapter 16<p>

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><p>I got another sneaky Pirates of the Caribbean line in there, tee hee.<p> 


	17. Chapter 17

Update because it's alllllmooooost done now. All the later chapters are a lot stronger than the earlier ones, so fixing them up to post takes less time.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 17<p>

_A Pirate knows how to make a dramatic entrance._

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><p>It was already dark by the time Fran returned to the Whitecap. "Nice night we're having," Balthier called out before she made it to the door, strolling from underneath an awning and greeting her with a tip of his head.<p>

"It may prove to be," she responded, casting a glance at him and noticing at once the purplish bruise flourishing over one of his eyes, though he cocked his head in such a way to throw shadow over it.

She smirked, fixing him in his good eye before asking, "Lose a fight?" Balthier bristled, narrowing his gaze and then flinching at the sudden shot of pain the action provoked.

"_Won _a fight, actually," he remarked.

"Oh?" mocked Fran. "Your face speaks otherwise."

"I shall have you know it was not the fight, but my unceremonious _ejection_ from the premises that resulted in my injury," he replied pickily, tentatively pressing his thumb against his eye and scowling; he had, somewhat foolishly, hoped it wouldn't be too obvious.

"Well, tonight the winds of fortune might change tack on us at last," she consoled.

"I should bloody well hope so," he retorted, sounding as if he took their misfortunes personally, which in all fairness, he did. The black eye, along with their already monumental series of misfortunes, was only the latest injury to add to cosmic insult. "They have been blowing us around something awful as of late." .

"I hope then, you've found remedy to our fates," she suggested optimistically.

"Of a sort," he vaguely answered, scratching his chin as they set off towards the only guest house in Balfonheim that would still take them as customers. "One tries not to plot things out too meticulously, or there is no room to adapt." That was code for a 'plan' being more of an educated whim. "Still," he added brightly, walking closer to her and hushing his voice a little, "I think we may find our luck again in Arcades."

"I am glad to hear it." There was honest relief in her tone; while she had faith in her partner, he was only mortal and it was a fine mess they were in.

"I shall fill you in on the particulars once we are off the streets," he explained, giving a dirty mix of cautious and suspicious looks to passersby. "You never know who is listening these days."

"_We_ ought to know," she pointed out – they were only just recovering from the mistake of having too loose tongues in untrustworthy places.

"Quite," he agreed sourly, trailing off into silence for a few paces. "At least we'll not have too early a start," he spoke up moments later; it was unlike him to be both in good-spirits _and _quiet. "I've to go to the Moogling and make some long-distance arrangements, so I doubt we'll be making a move until nightfall."

"How are we like to travel?" she inquired.

"That all depends on our communicant, I'm afraid," he said regrettably. "Not in the Strahl, that's a given."

"Is it safe to leave Balfonheim without her?"

"Oh, absolutely not," he answered without a shred of doubt in his voice, but Fran knew they were going to do so anyway. "I simply do not know what else we can do at this point," he confessed with a sigh. "We need gil to pay the moogles, to pay Maxell... to pay my dues at the Whitecap." No wonder they'd thrown him out, thought Fran with a smirk. "Unfortunately, our best recourse for settling these matters seems to be nothing less than infiltrating the Arcadian Imperial Palace, obtaining the Emperor's blood, and then making off with his greatest treasure."

"A realistic option, then," remarked Fran caustically.

"It seems so," he said with a shrugging gesture. "We shall have to manage."

"We've escaped tighter spots before," she reminded him, her inference to the Bahamut undisguised – it was the line by which they judged most challenges.

"I know which problem _I'd_ rather face again," he commented flippantly. "If I thought going down in a towering inferno to almost certain death would excuse us from going back to Arcades, I'd take a running leap at it."

"That would be too easy," she said scathingly. "Lady Destiny desires more creative ways for us to seal our doom."

"Quite. If we survive this, she and I will be having some serious words," he announced with dry humour – a good indicator that their prospects were not as foul as his hyperbole suggested. "I mean, I've known some capricious women in my time, but even Ashe has to pay tribute." Smirking in concurrence, Fran added nothing further as they were almost at the inn, and conversation trailed off as they took their rooms for the night.

Almost exactly a day later, at the same unsociable hour of the evening, he and Fran were both holed up uninspiringly in the back of a trading caravan, transporting a shipment of silks and other textiles to Upper Arcades. Balthier had engaged half the morning organizing their transport to Arcades with his mystery communicant – security being tighter than ever, perhaps due to their special relevance to the Emperor's interests – and for the rest of the day they trekked out onto the Cerobi Steppe, where they intercepted a trading ship with a flare. Traders were no strangers to smuggling people in and out of the city, and theirs had already been informed of the meeting, so there were no problems – _for once_ – when Balthier and Fran clambered into the back and settled down amongst the wares.

They _crawled _into Arcadia over the course of the night – the low-flying transporter ship was barely worthy to fly the skies, at least as far as Balthier was concerned – but beggars certainly couldn't be choosers, and they both did their best to sleep away as much of the monotonous journey as possible. They finally arrived in a private unloading station in Upper Arcades in the early hours of the morning, but rather than the usual few clerks and hands employed to help unload, there was quite the affluent party to meet them. A select group of noblemen and one lady, eagerly anticipating the second return to Arcades of _Ffamran Mied Bunansa._

The small party loitered uncomfortably in the unloading bay, most of them unaccustomed to being on the working side of any operation; their hired strongarms were simply wondering how much longer they were going to be kept waiting. Lady Cecliana sat awkwardly on a pile of sacks stuffed with grain, shooting glances at her uncle and father who were stood near the door of their private aircab. After fleeing the Emperor's party at the start of the week on her beloved's word, she had not heard from, or even _of,_ her supposed lover or his business again. In her increasing worry for his welfare, she went to father and uncle to beg their aid in finding him, convinced that he'd been caught by the Imperials.

Her father, strangely enough, had not heard of Ffamran Bunansa for nearly ten years, and in the investigation that followed they discovered only a small network of people, all of whom gave their accounts of him based on the recommendation of someone else. Aside from those few, no one in the upper circles of Arcadian society had any knowledge of him. This obviously raised the suspicions of her family, and Cecliana's father had been about to put out a special directive to discover 'Ffamran' at all costs when out of the blue a message from him arrived from Balfonheim.

As suddenly as he had vanished, he was back again.

However, her father and uncle maintained their suspicions that she was being fooled, so only agreed to her pleas to help the man with the intention of bringing him in. They arranged for the smugglers to pick up the so-called F. M. Bunansa on a routine trade shipment into Arcades, but they would be waiting for him at the other end and an explanation _would_ be obtained.

Their mercenaries were the usual sort of hired thugs, but Cecliana dearly hoped that there would be no need to use force against her beau. She was certain that there must have been some kind of misunderstanding – convinced as she was that her love would not have wilfully deceived her. Although, she still had plenty to worry about as they waited nervously for his arrival. She'd not yet formally presented him to her father or family as her fiancée, and these troubles had hardly endeared him as a suitor. While she was sure his natural charm and good breeding would surely win them over in the end, it would be a tense engagement, to say the least.

She let loose an great sigh of relief when she finally saw the bulky trading airship crawl overhead and slowly lower into the docking area.

"At the ready, men," said her uncle to the mercenaries, as he and his brother hauled themselves to their feet.

"We shall see this Ffamran Bunansa,_ at last_," her father remarked scathingly, and then turned to his daughter. "Prepare yourself, child," he warned, and the ominous clicking sounds of rifles loading burned in her ears; she prayed to the gods that Ffamram would not be harmed. At last the ship shunted to the ground, and the entire assembly waited with bated breath as the sounds of movement echoed from within the hold. There was _something _in there, at the very least. The doors started to open and Cecliana held her breath, preparing herself to see him once more, heart pounding in her ears.

She'd been told to prepare for the worst; however, none of their party had been prepared to see a dark-skinned Viera step out of the ship's hold. Cecliana's first thought was that the smugglers had picked up the wrong person, but as the Viera looked calmly around the assembly, she heard an unmistakable voice from within.

"Do we have much company?" rang the distinctive tone, and the dreadful realisation dawned on her that this exotic creature must be travelling _with _him.

"Five," the Viera answered him mysteriously, her foreign tone unfamiliar on Arcadian ears. Cecliana had never met a Viera before, only seen them in passing, and it was impossible not to stare.

"Quite the audience for you," the Viera spoke again, and then the rich laughter of Cecliana's love echoed from the ship. He sounded all too familiar, and _far _too comfortable in his tone to her – bringing seeds of doubt and jealously to flourish in the Arcadian lady's chest.

"Well, what kind of leading man lacks an audience?" he jested, and then his tone became suddenly much sharper. "On your word, then." The Viera nodded, and then with a sudden shout 'Ffamran' leapt into view, skidding across the paved floor as he raised a loaded and cocked gun.

Cecliana gave a scream of fright when the first shot fired, and one of their men fell – almost instantly, it seemed, quickly followed by another as the Viera drew back a bow. The others panicked and fumbled with their weapons, but their retaliatory shots flew wild and missed; down fell another pair with near-silent whisper of the Viera's bow and the explosive blast of the gun.

Soon only one man stood between them, shakily training his loaded rifle on the man Celiana had thought to be her fiancée, who was still reloading his own weapon; her main cocked his gun and she let out a shriek as she realised he would fire before Ffamram. However, before their man could pull the trigger an arrow took him straight through the shoulder, and he crumpled to the floor.

"Ffamran!" Cecliana managed to shriek at last, and quickly her lover's eyes flitted over to her, as if he'd only just realized she was there at all.

"Hm?" he murmured, his mouth twisting into an amused smirk. "I am afraid I do not know to whom you speak." With a few swaggering steps, he approached – her father and uncle still staring in horror at the whole event, unable to believe it'd even taken place. He reached out and took her hand into his – the feel of it was the same as she remembered, yet it was not _him _who stood before her. The Ffamran that Cecliana had known did not move or speak like that – those were not his calculating eyes that fixed upon her, nor would he travel with Viera or shoot down her family's men like clay pigeons. Who _was _this stranger, she wondered, as panic rooted deep in her gut – the only thing she was sure of was that she should fear him. He gave off the air of someone who could, and _would, _do anything in order to get what he wanted.

"It's _Balthier_, milady," he purred, lifting her hand to his mouth and pecking it in a shallow parody of their former relations. Then he span her so her back was pressed to his front, a hand firm around her throat. "Delightful to make your acquaintance," he murmured in her ear with a mocking chuckle, before turning his attention to her father and uncle, who had finally regained their senses. One had scrambled for a fallen man's weapon and held it shakily at them.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," Balthier told them, his voice assured and playful. "I don't much trust your aim, and you don't want to go and hit your poor child here, do you?" He began to walk towards them, bringing Cecliana along with firm guiding steps. The hapless shield saw her father's hand tremble, as the end of his gun drew closer and closer to her chest, and eventually fell away. Instead, he fixed it on the Viera, who stood quite calmly a few feet away, apparently completely at ease.

"I'll shoot her_, _then" spluttered Celiana's father. "You let go of my daughter!"

"Now, I wouldn't do that _either_," remarked Balthier jovially. "Fran doesn't take too well to such threats. Do you, Fran?"

Just as her father pulled the trigger to the unfired rifle, the Viera moved with a fluid, animal quality, diving low to the ground below the shot, then springing back up with the force of a canon. She drove a leg into his gut, sending him flying as if he were no more than a rag doll, crashing into her uncle so that the both of them tumbled messily to the ground. Instead of releasing Cecliana, Balthier drew her tighter against him for just a moment, so she could felt him laughing against her.

"Well, don't say I didn't warn you," he jested, and then took hold of his captive firmly by the chin and twisted her face towards his. She met his totally unfamiliar eyes with fear and anticipation, feeling the air of his breath against her skin as he chuckled again with satisfaction.

"Now, Milady," he addressed her. "As _charming _as this has been, I shall have to leave you, and we can't have any screaming for help just yet." Moving so suddenly that she didn't even have time to think of struggling, he produced a clean silken rag and tied it across her mouth. With another strip drawn out from his shirt-sleeve, he bound her hands behind her back and then released her, guiding her with a firm arm to sit down on the sacks of grain once more.

"I expect that someone will discover you sooner or later," said Balthier in passing, just as the fading whine of airship engines overhead indicated the transporter had fled the scene – so she was now quite alone, bar her unconscious relatives and their fallen allies. Cecliana looked around in desperation, but only saw the Viera rummaging in her father's air-cab. "You've been of _tremendous _aid if I might say so myself, but now is the time for us to part ways – for good," he remarked with false solemnity, then paused for a moment as if thinking. "I would apologise for the misuse you've suffered at my hands, but that would imply I feel remorse, so I won't insult you with the insincerity," he announced, tugging one more a length of fabric out of his shirt-sleeve, then with a smirk and a last flirtatious wink, he tied it across her eyes.

"Goodbye, Cecliana," she heard him say, speaking so close to her ear that his voice tickled it. "May you enter your next affair a little wiser. Are you ready, Fran?" he called over to his companion; Cecliana heard his steps leading away, the slam of an air-cab door, then glossar engines growing gradually fainter, and finally... silence.

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><p>Hooo-eeee now it starts!<p> 


	18. Chapter 18

Oh the fun we're to have. OH THE FUN.

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 18<p>

_A Pirate knows the value of a well-played gambit._

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><p>While Balthier lolled back in the plush, padded seat of a recently commandeered aircab, Fran bent awkwardly over the controls, the tiny cab too small for her elongated Viera stature, piloting through the busy Arcades skyways towards the Imperial Palace.<p>

"I think that went rather well," he announced, polishing some imaginary blemishes off the handle of his gun with a self-sastifactory air.

"You anticipated their movements correctly," Fran tepidly agreed, unable to even look over her shoulder at him, as her ears got in the way if she turned too far in any direction. "Thus far."

"Oh ye of little faith," he bantered, leaning over her shoulder in the cramped cabin to watch her fly, encroaching further on the little space she had. "Are you sure you don't want me to pilot?" he suggested. "I must confess it doesn't look comfortable for you."

"No," she snapped, one of her elbows bumping into the inside of her knee as she swerved around a corner. "We will be there in a matter of minutes," she said tersely. "Patience."

"If you insist," he half-sighed and loafed back in the cab again. Patience was not one of his gifts – not that he lacked them. "Hold up, what do you mean, 'thus far'?" he admonished. "Has not everything gone exactly to plan?"

"Exactly to plan in a plan far from exact," she retorted. "So luck favours you – thus far." Balthier couldn't deny it had been on guesswork and a gamble that he'd persuaded Celiana and her family to help them. It was lucky enough they'd agreed to smuggle them into the city, let alone coming to meet him in one of their own private aircabs – which was even more fortunately embellished with the House Solidor crest. However, he wasn't going to hear a word against his plans until something went wrong with them.

"If you continue to be so pessimistic then you shall reverse all our aforementioned luck through sheer willpower," he remarked scathingly. Although Fran considered pointing out to him the long chronicles of misfortune that had brought them to their current position, she decided against it, as it would likely provoke an unnecessary amount of drama on her partner's part, and instead opted to concentrate on flying the uncooperative aircab in a straight line.

Arcadian aircabs reputedly took an hour to learn how to pilot, and several lifetimes to master; while Balthier liked to consider himself a virtuoso, in reality he flew more like a teenage boy on a joyride - unsurprising considering those were the circumstances in which he learned. However, Fran did not think much of their drawing attention by flying through the sky avenues of the city turning barrel rolls at every corner and nearly sending everything else around them hurtling to the ground. Which was, of course, what he was guaranteed to do.

So, she being the far more responsible pilot – the dynamics of actually fitting into the pilot's chair in the first place aside – stuck cautiously to the sidestreets, working her way up to the richer districts of the city, and beyond them the Palace itself.

Balthier, realising he was not going to be entertained by his partner for the duration of the trip, took to lounging back in the cab with a very bored air as they progressed through the city. While this vehicle wasn't quite as coffinish as the usual public affair, he did still wonder how Celiana, her far-from-dainty farther and his similarly proportioned brother, all managed to fit inside. One of the armed men they brought with them must have piloted, and the other four might have hung off the outside for all he could imagine.

When they approached the markers of the Imperial Palace's private Airship landing bay, his mind moved onto more worthy issues, as both he and Fran watched carefully for any signs of suspicion on the ground. The hinge-pin of his idea had been the Solidor colours of the cab getting them easy access to the palace - or at least onto the ground without half the skyforce descending on them. As if to remind them of the price of failure, right above their heads hung a batallion of airships as ominous watchdogs over the city.

Thankfully, all went according to plan, and they were waved through by the guards and landing crew without any trouble. Bar the landing crew themselves, of course, who would prove to be a small detail that needed dealing with.

"Won't be a moment," Balthier announced when they touched down, lifting the door up high above his head as he stepped out onto the bay. They needed the crew to believe they were the owners of the cab for a little while, at least.

"I say, you two!" Balthier yelled in his brashest and most vulgar accent to the two men who had uninterestedly shepparded them in to land. "Yes, you!" he snapped as the two young Arcadian men looked over with a blend of confusion and apathy. "There seems to be a problem with my cab." The two continued to stare blankly, in spite of it being one of their official capacities to deal with minor engineering troubles for guests.

"Well don't just stand there," Balthier directed harshly, knowing that the secret to maintaining the illusion was to attempt to be as arrogant and rude as possible – the men wouldn't expect any less from the alleged cream of Arcadian society; small wonder he'd abandoned it. Begrudgingly, the two young men made their way over to the aircab, eyeing both it and its occupants disapprovingly. While Baltheir could draw out the facade a little while longer, they'd coin on soon enough that he and Fran impostors, so needed to be dealt with in an appropriate manner.

"What's the problem... sir," one of the men asked very reluctantly. Balthier stepped back a little, away from the open door - which he still held up above his head - and rested a hand on his waist irately.

"I am no engineer," he bit disdainfully. "How in the blazes ought I know? There is something wrong with the damn thing, so I would rather consider it your livelihoods to fix it before I report the both of you to your commander." The stream of abuse seemed to mostly gloss over the men, who were likely accustomed to it on a regular basis, but one did shuffle over to take a closer look. No sooner had he done so than Balthier brought the door slamming down on top of his head.

With a noise like a wet sack falling down a flight of steps, the man slammed the back of his head on the door, the front of it on the floor of the cab itself, and then tumbled in a bruised heap onto the cold landing bay floor.

His working companion was too shocked to do anything but make a mangled yelping noise, followed by a short, abruptly cut-off scream as Balthier grabbed him by the collar and swung him hard against the metal shell of the aircab.

Balthier brought his hand back to peer into the man's eyes, which widened in panic, his mouth making a sucking sound as he prepared to scream, at which point Balthier threw him back against the wall of the cab a second time.

"Still with us?" he asked the semi-conscious man as he brought him back up again, and for reasons that defied the instinct of self-preservation, most likely due to severe concussion, the man nodded. Fran was climbing out of the cab just as the third dull metallic thumping sound shook its tiny frame, and slowly made her way around to the other side as the fourth, fifth and sixth rang out.

"I imagine that's enough," she pointed out caustically, noticing a thin trail of blood that had run down her partner's hand and was staining his flawless, freshly-laundered shirtsleeve.

"No penalty for thoroughness, Fran," was his smug retort, but after noticing the trickle of blood himself, gave out a yelp of disgust and dropped the man on top of his fallen comrade. Then he raised the aircab door once more, picked up both men and tossed them inside, flicking the inside catch of the lock on before slamming it shut again.

"Landing crew? What landing crew?" he jested, unhooking his gun from his back and holding it loosely in his hand; best to be prepared, even if they didn't want the alarm bells going off just yet. There were almost certainly guards patrolling this area – if they weren't stationed right outside the door itself already.

"There will be time for your wit when we've succeeded," Fran scolded, turning her attention to the far more useful pursuit of finding them a way out of the private aerodrome. Thanks to a conveniently placed set of rather beautiful – and promptly broken – stained-glass windows at the end of the bay, they were able to make an escape into the palace gardens without being sighted by anyone.

The sounds of the scuffle, or more likely the broken glass, attracted some nearby guards, but the apparent disappearance of the landing staff held them up long enough for the pirating duo to make a clean disappearance from the scene, though the alarm was soon raised.

Fortunately enough, that was exactly what they wanted.

* * *

><p>Larsa Ferrinas Solidor, otherwise known as Emperor Solidor, was engrossed in some experiments in his labs when the knock came upon his door, and was irritated at first to be disturbed. However, everyone in his employ knew that he was not to be disturbed unless it was absolutely necessary – at least, everyone did now, considering what had happened last time with the Marlboro fumes and that poor maid. So it was with anxiety, rather than chargrin, that he opened the door to the timid-looking Imperial.<p>

"What is it?" he inquired seriously.

"Ah... Your Highness," the man said meekly. "There appears to have been a breach of our security in the aerodrome... maybe," he tagged on guiltily – the ambiguity bringing an appropriate amount of confusion to the young Emperor's face.

"Maybe?" he queried.

"W-well," the soldier stammered. "You said that all suspicious incidents were to be reported to you, Your Highness, and, see... down at the aerodrome landing bay, the patrols heard some kinda' funny noises, so they went to investigate. Only, when they went in there was no sign of the boys meant to be on duty, and all the windows at the far end smashed."

"Was the bay empty?" Larsa questioned, listening intently to the full story before stopping to ask him anything.

"No, no," rushed the soldier. "See, there was a private cab all parked up there just as if the lads on duty had done their job, only no lads, and no passengers. The commander don't know what to think of it, so he sent me to inform you, y'highness."

In spite of probably being a good couple of years Larsa's senior, the man was still bashful in the dominating presence of his monarch, and seemed determined to fix his gaze anywhere but on the prodigal teenager's person. The fact that the arguably genius-level youth was prone to outsmarting most of his seniors, even within the Senate, certainly helped bolster his presence if the inherent intimidation of the Solidor genealogy left anything to be desired.

"And there was no one outside the window?" Larsa ascertained, already sketching out what he presumed happened.

"N-no," he confirmed. "We tried the doors of the cab too, only they were locked, and looked 'round the gardens outside, but didn't find a thing, Sir."

"Whose was the cab?" asked Larsa.

"Oh, well it had a crest and colours on it, o'course," the man assured him. "It wouldn't have been allowed to land if it wasn't known to us."

"Yes, I am aware," said Larsa a little sharply. "I wish to know whose colours it bore." Stunned, and a little embarrassed to have caused the Emperor to shorten his temper with him, the solider shamefully mumbled the answer he sought.

"It was Solidor crest an' colours, m'lord. That's why they was allowed to pass." Larsa almost wanted to stagger with the revelation, had he not been silently expecting it. There were only a handful of families within the Solidor domain that were permitted to use the colours and insignia of their House. Such as that of his precocious cousin, who had been seen not a fortnight ago on the arm of one highly infamous sky pirate. His eyes may have widened as he realised the magnitude of the situation, but Larsa didn't speak, causing his solider to take the initiative.

"Uh... Your Highness?" he ushered. "What are your orders, sir?"

"The gardens," he declared bluntly. "They must have escaped into the gardens, so probably remain there still. You must relay to the commander that I order every available man to set about combing all of the outermost gardens of the palace grounds, and that I do not wish for anyone to report back to me until such a time as you have found them. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes, Your Highness," the solider acquiesced hurriedly. "B-but one small detail, I beg of you," he asked bravely. "Who... who is it that we are meant to find?" Only then did Larsa realise they had no idea whether they were to suspect the palace staff for making off with the cab's passengers, or vice-versa; considering the presumed moral standards of anyone flying Solidor colours, the staff were evidently held in greater suspicion. Not that it mattered to them either way.

"Whoever you want," he replied shortly. "You have your orders, just go!" The soldier, frightened by the scolding, obediently scuttled off towards the barracks to relay the orders, regardless of their gaping holes, and Larsa hastily set about running in the opposite direction, halting only once to doubleback on himself and fetch from his lab a sabre that he suspected would become very useful to him in the near future.

He had already resolved that his soldiers weren't going to be much use in this situation. The object he chased would become a scandal should its existence ever be revealed to the general public, and of course, in this city as soon as one person knew, the entire populace knew.

Plainly put, he needed to avoid his soldiers discovering what the real trouble was just as much as the perpetrators of the break-in did, so the further away they were from it, the better. There was of course, no doubt whatsoever in his mind that it was Balthier and Fran who were responsible for the mysterious circumstances. He could hardly contain his excitement – if Balthier was here, so too must be the will – and he hurried to the one place that he knew they knew they could find him.

If Balthier and Fran had wished to infiltrate the palace without his learning of it, he didn't doubt they could accomplish it more convincingly than this. The signs were too deliberate; the smashed windows, the hijacked cab left in the open. He understood then it was because they wanted him to know, which meant they were intending to barter with him, or needed something concerning the secrets of the document. Either way, they were going to have to confront one another, and Larsa knew the one obvious place to do it. Keeping one hand firmly on his sabre as he approached his study – the study that he had entertained the pair in some weeks previously – he noticed the tiny gouges around the lock that indicated it had been rather crudely picked, and after a single, calming breath, he opened it.

Behind his own desk, with her legs stretched casually across a number of important ledgers and official business reports, Fran sat rather comfortably in Larsa's chair. Her expression barely even betrayed her acknowledgement of his being there, let alone any measure of surprise. He saw no immediate sign of Balthier, but that did not mean he was not there, and his guard remained raised.

"We meet again," Fran greeted him coolly, still giving off no signs of excitement in her tone or appearance; the calmness leant itself to Larsa almost instinctively.

"I only wish it could be under better circumstances," he replied solemnly, still keeping his grip tight around the handle of his weapon, and in a split-second he felt the disturbance leaping out in the corner of his eye.

"Hiyah!" came a great shout, almost anomalous to the atmosphere, as Balthier energetically launched himself from behind the door to the room at Larsa. A veteran of combat, he sidestepped the attack without the slightest signs of distress, and only needed to swiftly adjust his arm and the weapon it held for the guard to come crashing into contact with the pirate's face.

He struck – or Balthier struck himself more accurately – directly across the temple and then went flying across the study, crashing into the shelves that lined the walls; slumping to the ground, his eyes first rolled back, and then sagged shut as blood streamed from his forehead and dripped onto his immaculately-white shirt.

"That was a weak attempt, particularly for you," the youth remarked, noticing a valuable family-owned vase begin to teeter forebodingly on a high shelf above the unconscious pirate's head. "Perhaps rumours of your fall hold some–" He had no time to finish his slight, because from a seemingly relaxed position some metres away, Fran had come flying at him with a sharp, whiplash kick straight across his chest.

He staggered into a clumsy block, and pushed her away with barely enough time to parry the next strike for his head with a dangerously-taloned hand. In spite of the suddenness and fury of her attacks, he met the flurry with confidence and ability; he'd earned the titles he'd won across the country – fighting under his usual pseudonym, of course – and was no novice to life-or-death battles.

However, the Viera was still a more formidable opponent than he had ever faced before; it took all of his skill simply to match her in blocks and parries. However, persistence was the footsoldier or reward, and after fierce duelling he finally saw an opening to strike at her. Ex-ally or no, he had to strike – he'd no intention of killing Fran or Balthier, just a need to incapacitate them until he could reclaim what was by all understanding rightfully his in the first place. However, as he lunged forwards, intending to strike Fran to the ground where she could easily be pinned, it suddenly and violently occurred to Larsa that he had not heard the vase smash.

It seemed almost inconsequential, tangential, even, but when he last saw the priceless family artefact, it had been teetering forwards in a way that should have guaranteed its falling from the shelf. He would have run to catch it, had Fran not set upon him so ferociously.

Yet he hadn't heard it break on the unforgiving stone floors, and as he made a clumsy, faltering hit on Fran, the realization crept up on him; the only way the vase wouldn't have smashed – as it most certainly fell – was if someone had caught it. And the only person in the position to do so was supposed to be unconscious.

Larsa's last thought coincided with the belated smashing of the very vase in question over the back of his head. Saved once from falling into Balthier's hands, it now fell in pieces with its owner, and the young Emperor crumpled slowly to the floor.

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><p>End of Chapter 18<p>

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><p>It's the same vase Balthier and Fran wanted Larsa to give them waaay back at the start of this. CHEKHOV'S GUN FTW.<p> 


	19. Chapter 19

Kinda dropped off the radar again for a bit, but we're _alllllmost there_ folks!

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><p>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 19<p>

_A Pirate is obsessed with treasure._

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><p>"This end is rather a waste for such a reputedly priceless article," remarked Balthier as he pushed around a few shards of porcelain with his foot; a few paces in front of him, Fran rolled over the unconscious Emperor of Arcadia. "Then again," he added, "if the good Emperor had relinquished it to our possession when we asked nicely the first time, it might now be sitting safely on a collector's shelf." He wore a look that did nothing to disguise his pleasure at the vengeance. "Not scattered across the floor in pieces."<p>

Fran simply gave her partner a testing look, suggesting that he might better rub salt into Larsa's wounds if he were actually awake – and seeing as he wasn't, he might make better use of himself by helping her, instead of chattering away drunk on his own triumph.

Not that many kinds of victory involved the victor getting a head-wound intent on re-dying his shirt, but considering his recent record, Balthier was happy for everything he could get. Crouching down beside Larsa he helped his partner to move and bind the young man into his office chair, then gagged and blindfolded him for good measure with the last of the rags they had ripped from the trading caravan's load.

"Sorry about this, old sport," said Balthier insincerely as he picked a letter opener off Larsa's desk, and used it to make a quick, clean cut across the boy's hand. He turned the palm upright, so that blood collected in it, and handed both arm and the container that held Vayne's will to Fran. He then wiped his own brow with his sleeve, feeling the urgent trickle running down the side of his face, and was mildly alarmed at the spectacular amount of blood that he soaked up with his once-clean shirt. He'd somewhat foolishly hoped it might be sweat, or an inexplicable leak in the palace roof, or at least not quite as _much_ blood as that.

"A good thing you are doing the honours," he commented as he dabbed his fingers tentatively around the source of the bleeding. "I should think I'd end up with my own blood all over the document rather than that of our obliging guest." He hissed a little as his fingertips found the gash across his temple. "The little _bugger_," he cursed, taking a wad of leftover fabric and pressing it against the wound in an attempt to staunch the flow. "It was luck enough I didn't actually black out."

It'd been a risky gambit, fooling Larsa into thinking he had knocked out Balthier after a surprise attack, only to launch a real one. Although hardly the most honest plan the two of them had conspired, there weren't all that many of their plans that were honest in the first place, which made it seem less incriminating.

"Blood for blood," pointed out Fran as she smoothed out the will across the table, and brought Larsa's hand in close. His head still hung down, dead to the world, which made their job a little easier for the time being.

"Quite so," agreed Balthier. "I must say, I rather understand all those titles he has reputedly won under that entertaining 'Lamont' alter-ego of his." He marked the pseudonym with scathing quotation gestures on each hand, before adding, "I know I shouldn't like to go against him in an honest fight."

Dishonest fights were a totally different matter, of course.

"Well, no sense waiting around," he told Fran, who still hesitated before combining the Solidor boy's blood with the seal of the will. They had no guarantee that his blood would work, and if it didn't they might as well walk over to the prisons themselves. "Better get it over with." With a short nod, she tipped Larsa's hand over, and then pressed it against the seal.

The blood spattered in little drops at first, then started to spread evenly under the pressure of his palm. There was an empty, excruciating pause at first, and then they saw – and Fran smelt – the sharp release of the magik that bound the glyph so many years ago. It was impossible to resist a grin as the blood-seal activated within the Solidor crest, and previously invisible lines of magik illuminated with an eerie mist-laden glow. Removing the boy's hand from the document again, Fran let the blood soak through the parchment, until the magik had finished pulsing through the delicate lines of the hidden glyph and the whole pattern was revealed in murky aquamarine light.

"It's a glyph, no doubt," Balthier commented giddily, almost unable to stand up straight – though that might have been the blood loss. He preferred to think that it was because here before them lay a secret that Vayne Solidor – one of the most powerful and richest men in Ivalice – had taken to his grave, and now they were going to rip it back out.

"It is of the kind that work in pairs," Fran explained, as she studied the intricacies of the design thoughtfully. "This is the key."

"Ah, to a treasure hidden elsewhere?" suggested Balthier, waiting for Fran's reassuring nod – ecstatic as they were, there was still no assurance of any treasure at the end of this goose chase to end all goose chases.

"If we take it to the location of its counterpart, I ought to be able to unlock the master-glyph," she continued, "and we may finally lay hands on Vayne's last treasure." At the sound of his late brother's name, Larsa stirred a little and started to groan through his gag, so without hesitation Balthier thumped him on the top of the head with his fist, quietening him down once more.

"Then I think we had better hop to it," he interjected, flashing Fran a playful look only to get a scorching one in return, "before our company rejoins us."

"Where?" she questioned as he paced towards the door; Balthier stopped suddenly, rocking back on his heels and turning to face her. She was in the process of gathering up the bloodstained will once more, and fitting it carefully back into the carrier.

"Where do you _think?_" he replied dictatorially, his eyes bright and sharp with the thrill of treasures only just out of reach. "A treasury is where one usually deigns to hide treasures, Fran." His partner remained calm, ever the voice of reason when his flights of fancy took off too fast.

"You've no certainty of that," she pointed out. "It could be anywhere in the palace. It could even be beyond the walls."

"Granted, but it being somewhere else is certainly of no bloody use to us," he retorted. "I'll have you know the Arcades Palace Vault was once known as the safest lockhouse in all Ivalice – until someone emptied it of treasures to fund social welfare, do-goodery and the like," he explained, shooting the still-unconscious Larsa an exasperated look. "If it is going to be anywhere, the chances of it being there are certainly greater than those of it being underneath Dame Hudson's pastry shop. So before we cash out our fates on an impossible task, don't you think we might as well look in the one obvious place first?" he finished triumphantly, crossing his arms across his chest.

Although the slowly clotting wound on his head and eye-catching bloodstains all the way down his left side somewhat detracted from his appearance of infallibility – as did his black eye – Fran remained austere, crossing her arms in a mocking mirror-image; the cylinder with the still-shining will trapped delicately between her elongated fingers.

"And if it is not there?" she posited coolly.

"Then I'll think of something else!" he exploded, his temper betraying impatience and frustration. He refused to entertain any other ideas until this one had been firmly disproved, and realistically speaking, going to a treasure room to look for treasure was probably the sanest idea he'd had all week "Now on with you!" he barked, knocking open the door and flinging an arm outside it in gesture. Regrettably, his moment was ruined by one of the Emperor's guards, who just so happened to be just outside in the process of his patrol.

He stared at Balthier with just about as much shock as Balthier stared at him, but by the time he'd given a yell of surprise and grappled for his weapon, the pirate had his cocked and loaded his own; he fired into the unfortunately-placed man's chest before anything more could come of the exchange. After the Imperial fell smoking to the floor, Balthier hooked his gun onto his belt and grabbed the man by the ankles, dragging him inside the room with his Emperor as Fran made her way over to the door. They certainly couldn't stay here any longer.

With good pirating knowledge – namely, always knowing where the treasury of any given palace was – they set off towards their destination. Thanks to the Emperor's own thoughtful deed of sending almost every man in the building outdoors to go and comb the garden for some as-of-yet unnamed suspects, they did not meet another soul all the way down.

The Imperial treasury was in fact no longer guarded for a number of reasons – one being that they knew where it was – and Larsa had since moved most of the valuables elsewhere. Most articles of historical or academic value were loaned out to museums or Akademys, others were secured in bank vaults, and any trinkets left ended up scattered around Larsa's own quarters. They finally arrived outside the cleverly tucked-away entrance, slightly out of breath after the not-insubstantial run over, and Balthier feeling a little more than light-headed. He certainly didn't imagine that the palace had started to inexplicably spin around of its own volition.

"After..." he panted, staring at the floor in an attempt to stop it swaying, "you." He gestured weakly towards the staircase that lead down into the underground chamber. Fran went first and he followed close behind, his gun loaded and cocked for safeguarding – not that he imagined he could shoot straight. Descending into the dark, damp atmosphere of the basement, he heard Fran uncapping the case for the will, and tap it out into her hand.

"Damn! Sodding thing," he cursed upon kicking an unseen step in the almost-lightless room – the last defence to the greatest stronghold of Arcadian riches in the whole country. "I suspect we could use a little light in here," he observed, and was fumbling blindly for matches when on the far wall, shining with the most powerful kind of arcane magik, emerged a huge glyph, lighting up the whole room with its ethereal glow.

"Ah... that will do," he murmured, while Fran, silhouetted against the aquamarine light before him, unfurled the will, which was pouring mist out of every mark and crease. She started to compare the signs on the parchment to those on the wall, oblivious to her partner's presence in the room, let alone anything he said – his usually-clear voice drowned out over the roar of mist in her ears.

Balthier fell quiet, seeing that there still remained some key to be unlocked between the glyphs; Fran had more of a talent for such things than he would ever possess, and he knew she probably would not notice him through the mist that clogged the room, though it was scentless on his own feeble senses. He instead felt through his things for a potion, and applied it generously to his forehead, sealing the wound, then reluctantly put it to his lips and drank – though disgusting, it would do much to replenish his strength and speed the replacement of blood he'd involuntarily donated to his shirt.

"One tis a code for the other," Fran explained when her study was through, speaking to no one in particular, with a distant, detached emptiness to her voice. Then, she slowly approach the larger glyph with a reverent air. "A Solidor emblem is rendered incomplete – the key to its restoration lies in the will." She reached up and drew a delicate fingertip across a few seemingly random shapes within the larger design, curving to pull the needle-fine edge across indecipherable markings.

Each section she touched lit up a jagged patch of light on the wall, and only when she was almost finished did Balthier realise that the dueling serpents of the Solidor crest were sketched out in magik across the wall.

"Of course," he murmured in awe, hardly able to believe that without the glyph being activated, there would be nothing but immovable brick in front of them. When there was a key and a code surrounded the treasure, he could barely stop his mouth watering in anticipation. At last, the puzzle was complete, and with another great flash of magik as the larger seal achieved its original purpose, a sonic blast of mist ripped through the small room, blinding them both for a moment.

"Fran!" Balthier called out, rubbing a hand heavily across his eyes and blinking the spots from them; at least his dull Hume senses recovered quicker. He spotted his partner slumped against the wall, chest heaving, her head rolled back. He touched a hand to her shoulder and she jumped almost violently, as if she had forgotten he was there at all. "Easy, pet," he hushed, offering out his hand for her to take; she grasped it tightly, pulling herself to her feet with a shaky breath.

"It took me by surprise," she said softly, her eyes still glazed and unfocused, suggesting her sight hadn't yet returned.

"One last trap, perhaps," he speculated, keeping his hand firmly on hers for the time being.

"No," she deferred. "Arcane magik. It cannot be controlled, and over time ferments like spoiled food. The blast was no more than the excess discharging from the spell."

"Then it has passed now," he said comfortingly – not that Fran really required it, but he was inclined to fuss anyway. "Let's see what we have here," he added more optimistically, fixing his own seeing eyes on the far wall; in the very centre of what had been flat stone, was a small compartment. It probably wasn't even large enough for a person to fit inside, but it was stacked up with a huge number of papers, books, and – most importantly – a moderately sized metal lock-box.

He released Fran's hand and approached, hearing her steps behind him as her eyes seeped back into focus. He pushed back a stack of large leather-bound legers, and secured both hands on the chest, ripping it out with an exaggerated jerk. As the case moved for the first time in at least five years, a beautiful clink of metal rang out from inside.

"Ah ha!" he triumphed, shaking the thing up and down and hearing the oh-so reassuring tinkle from within. "Do you hear that, Fran? We've done it!" he cheered, setting it down on the floor and excitedly turning the catch, which moved no more than half a centimetre and then elicited a depressing clunking sound.

It was locked.

"Oh damn and blast the lot of _harpies_ known as fates!" he cried despairingly. "Will it _never_ be over?"

Fran, meanwhile, was occupied in giving closer attention to the books and papers that were now piled up in an unsteady heap in the compartment, examining them carefully with her red-rimmed eyes.

"Keep your hands still," she warned without turning away from her work, hearing her partner' rummaging frantically in his packs. "We've no time for your lock-picking finesse. It will have to wait."

"But _Fran_," he said exasperatedly.

"Patience," she stated unwaveringly, holding up a tiny diary to the feeble, fading mist-light and trying to make sense of the scrawling ink-trails scoring each page.

"I resent that word more and more every time you say it," he speared, rattling the catch on the lock violently, as if it might help somehow. However, the chest was quite definitely locked, and their time not entirely plentiful, so as excruciating as it was to wait until they were in the clear to discover what the exact contents were, that was exactly what they were going to have to do. "What've you found?" he asked eventually, joining Fran in rummaging through the multitude of other journals and stacks of paper that were stuffed into the hideaway.

"Diaries," she answered dully, "papers... state reports, receipts..."

"Any of it valuable?"

"Not to us," she replied. "But I expect t'was these papers Larsa sought – they are all written in the hand of his brother." She held up one of the smaller diaries and gestured to the inside cover, where a large and elaborate signature read Vayne Solidor – man amongst gods and god amongst man.

"Ahh," hummed Balthier. "It makes sense at last."

Anyone with personal knowledge of the young Emperor saw that his devotion to his brother knew no bounds; throughout and even after the late ruler's madness and demise, the younger would still never hear ill words spoken against him. Larsa searched tirelessly for answers as to what had driven Vayne to such an end, convinced there had been good means behind his brother's wicked actions. It occurred to Balthier – just as it did to Fran – that if these were the last personal diaries of the deceased, so it was very likely that within their pages lay the secrets of his madness that Larsa had so ferociously hunted.

Together, they quickly started to sort all of the small books from the rest of the papers, which mostly seemed to be official documents. If the diaries were of value to someone, then they could be of value to pirates. His former dizziness long gone, Balthier felt his mind clearing, becoming sharper than it had been for a long while, the intoxicating drug of victory refined it to a hard, perceptive edge. It wasn't until he had regained the feeling that he realized he'd lost it, and _oh_ how he had missed it.

They'd almost finished sorting through all the papers and books, and were preparing to leave – the light had died so Balthier had lit a torch on the wall to provide them with light – when a familiar rattle started to echo down the stairwell.

"I don't like the sound of that, Fran," he whispered as the sound grew louder, and drawing his gun, backed across the room and flattened himself against the wall next to the doorway. "Just when I thought our luck was on the turn," he berated quietly, as the clank-clank steps of Imperial armour grew louder. Fran gave him a nod when the sounds drew even closer, and was reaching up to put out the torch, when at the last minute, she cocked her ears toward the door and hesitated.

"Fran? What are you doin-" Baltheir began, but at that point the Imperial strolled through the door, and his attention had to be otherwise occupied. "Haah!" he yelled, raising his gun to the man – or woman, it was hard to tell.

However, with a grunt that sounded oddly familiar, the Judge turned and punched Balthier's gun out of the way; out of his hand for that matter, sending the weapon pelting across the small room and into the far wall with a crunch. The Pirate watched his last defence hit the floor and then glanced back at the Judge, only to notice a gauntleted fist heading straight for his face. Unfortunately, he didn't have time to dodge, and hit the floor with a new stream of blood pouring from his mercifully – miraculously, even – not broken nose, though it was a close call.

"That's enough," Fran spoke up austerely, and much to Balthier's surprise, his attacker stopped. It was only then that he thought to look at the armour the Judge wore, and exactly who it belonged to.

"Oh, oh no," he groaned, sitting up and tipping back his head as he held a hand under his streaming nose, the blood running over his already-caked fingers and re-staining his already bloodied shirt. "That was entirely uncalled for, you unmitigated _bastard_," he told the man.

"I think not," the Imperial replied, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm. "You've caused more than enough trouble to merit that, Balthier."

"Have you seen the state I'm in, Basch?" the younger man burst. "I'm half-dead as it is, and you're _not_ _helping_." He turned to Fran at that point. "And you're not helping either!" he accused. "You might have told me before you allowed him to punch my face off."

"You did attempt to shoot him," she countered lazily, obviously enjoying the situation more than any concerned partner ought to.

"I attempt to shoot a lot of people, I'm a bloody pirate!" he burst. "Not to mention, even if he is an old war-friend of ours, Judge Gabranth here is still the Emperor's personal bodyguard and therefo-"

"He has not come to stop us," Fran interrupted bluntly. "If that was his purpose, why would he come alone?"

"Oh, I don't know, the satisfaction of breaking my nose?" suggested her partner acerbically.

"No, she is quite right," Basch said gruffly. "I have not come to stop you, Balthier... I've come to ask for your help."

* * *

><p>End of Chapter 19<p>

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><p>Eeeeee I am so excited, this appearance by Basch only appeared in my first redraft and still gives me the squees every time. Oh Baltheir, honey, I only do these things to you because I think it's so adorable when life beats the shit out of you.<p> 


	20. Chapter 20

Alllllmostdoooooone.

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><p><em><em>Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 20

_A Pirate always comes out on top._

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><p>Balthier couldn't quite comprehend what was being said to him. This could have been because he was quite convinced he'd lost more blood than he had left, or simply because of the extremely odd nature of the situation.<p>

"One more time?" he mumbled through his palm as he stuffed it under his nose to stem the flow of blood from it, feeling with his other for the potion bottle he'd left half-full.

"I have come to request your aid," Basch Fon Ronsenberg, or Judge Gabranth – whichever you preferred – announced solemnly. "It concerns Lars-"

"No, no, no," Baltheir interrupted hurriedly. "First things first, what in the blazing fates are you doing here?"

"A fair question," Fran concurred. "How _did_ you come upon us?"

Basch chuckled in his rough, growling way. "I have returned from a snipe hunt half way across Arcadia and found the Palace in chaos, soldiers in disarray, and my charge unconscious and bound in his study chair. It was not hard to deduce that you two were involved." He gave them a coarse look, reminding them of their reputation in case they had chanced to forget it.

"...Very well," conceded Balthier. "Then, what it is it you want?" He grabbed for the chest protectively. "I warn you that we'll not to be parted from this without a fight."

"Whatever is in there is no concern of mine," Basch informed him, instead looking over at the cavity in the wall, still stuffed with papers and books. "It is those."

"The papers? What of them?" questioned Fran; even if they were of lesser worth than the chest, there could still be value found in them, and she was as reluctant as her partner to part with any hard-won loot.

"I wish for you to take them from this place and _burn_ them," he stated. "It should appear as if this place were empty when Larsa arrives."

"I feel as though I should ask why," began Balthier, but before he had a chance to conclude _'but I do not care enough',_ Basch started to answer.

"Lord Larsa's fixation on his brother is not a healthy pursuit, in my mind," he elaborated. "However, it is his choice and I have not the power to change that."

"Look, it was just a figure of speech, I didn't really-" Balthier unsuccessfully attempted to interrupt.

"I know too much of what will be stored in these papers," Basch continued grimly as he approached the compartment and began to fold and stack the files into a more ordered pile. "Details of the war, assassinations, the tragedies at Nabudis and Landis..." he trailed off with the sting of his own devastated homeland. "If Larsa were to find these, it could destroy him. His hope that his brother was still a good man at heart is all he has left. He desperately wishes to find evidence to prove it, but I fear all he will come upon is evidence to the contrary." He turned back to Balthier and Fran, who had been sharing looks of disbelief. "So take these and dispose of them," he insisted.

"Far be it for me to question your methods," said Balthier tentatively, "but couldn't _you _do it just as easily?"

"I must be here when he arrives," he replied. "I've not the time to ensure they are all destroyed before he wakes up and follows us, and even the smallest suspicion that I am involved cannot be risked. He must never know these even _existed," _Basch professed, and Balthier held up both hands in a gesture of defence.

"Far be it our place to question your wishes, Captain," he entreated. "So allow me clarify our little arrangement; you will allow us to escape with the treasures we desire, on the provision that we take everything in that cache with us and burn it once we are away from the palace?" He glanced at Fran, who had the stack of diaries by her feet – quite assuredly nowhere _near _the hole in the wall – and seemingly beyond the Captain's notice, then very slyly smirked.

"Yes," answered Basch. "The boy was still unconscious when I went to the study, but I loosened his ties enough that he will be able to escape once he comes to. I should not imagine it will be too long before he pursues us here."

"In which case, it is hardly sensible to stand here any longer chattering like old wives," Balthier pointed out, getting up and fetching his gun from the far side of the room, hooking it onto his back and hanging the chest from his other hand. "Pass me some of those _worthless artefacts_, then," he instructed, and while Basch's eyes were diverted for a moment, Fran took the diaries and added them to another pile of books without garnering his notice.

"Any bright ideas on how we are to escape?" Balthier inquired hopefully. "I don't much like the odds back through the aerodrome, as all the sodding airships are kept in the sky for the very purpose of stopping people like us from stealing them."

"Rightly so," commented Basch.

"Remember, friend, that if _we're _caught so too are all these things you're so desperate to see the end of," Balthier retorted. "A little positive contribution would therefore be appreciated."

"Are there other exits on the ground?" asked Fran.

"_Exit. _Singular," Balthier replied, "and like to be crawling with Imperials as usual. Have I chanced to mention to you how very much I hate this building? Unless our ally here wishes to inform us of any secret pathways we've yet to discover, we're clear out of options," Basch only gave him a stony look; even if there were any secret passages the last thing he'd do is tell Balthier and Fran.

"Well," Fran remarked craftily. "If no exit exists for us, we shall have to _make_ one." She turned to Basch. "Your directions to lead us to the munitions store, if you would."

"Oh Fran," Balthier sighed fondly. "You become more brilliant every day." He was reminded at that point that were she not already the single greatest woman in his life, he would've fallen head over heels for her yet again.

"You surely don't intend to-" Basch started.

"What else are we to do?" Balthier finished for him. "It's this or you help us out another way. Now, you could help us steal an airship, or help us kill all the-"

"Very well," Basch relented quickly, realizing that it was the smallest evil out of a number of much greater ones, and began to lead the way. "If it must be that way, head left from this corridor and carry on straight. You will find what you seek behind a marked door on your right, and from there continue left. That will take you to the west wall, which borders directly onto the Upper Quarters of the city."

"And then snap, crackle and pop?" inquired Balthier mischievously, for which Basch gave him an unpleasant look.

"That wall is the thinnest in the palace. Try not to cause _too_ much destruction," he said resentfully.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Balthier teased. "You'll get good at being bad in no time, old friend."

"I do this only because I swore to my brother that I would protect the Lord Larsa, and I intend to keep that promise," Basch admonished, "any way I can."

"I do _love_ noble causes," Balthier chuckled. "Especially when they benefit me." They reached the fork in the corridor, and Basch slowed down his pace.

"I will leave you now," he announced. "I must return to Larsa. Keep to your word, pirates, or I give you mine you'll suffer for it."

"It is curious how people are constantly repeating words to that effect to me. Why do you think that is, Fran?" Balthier remarked in a bemused fashion.

"You never listen," Fran answered.

"No, no, can't be that," he deferred without noticing the irony. "Anyway, Basch, we shall manage from here. Your assistance has been _invaluable, _so for that you have my thanks." Basch nodded at them, replaced his helmet and then set off with the characteristic Imperial-armour clatter, leaving Balthier and Fran alone once more, remaining still for a moment as they watched him walk away and eventually turn a corner out of sight.

"Well," Balthier remarked. "That was rather useful."

"I trust not our luck to hold," Fran replied sardonically. "On with business."

"Whatever the lady wants," Balthier answered devotedly, following after her with a spritely hop in his step. "I do _so_ enjoy it when we blow things up." Finding at last the alleged 'west wall' that would lead them onto the streets – give or take a metre or so of stone – they set their things down and made haste towards the munitions storeroom, starting to roll barrels of gunpowder along to their chosen spot for demolition.

They added a few crates of solid explosives, some bottles of paraffin and other liquid fuels to the barrels; when at last Balthier was content with his masterpiece, he pulled the cork out of a bottle of fuel and trailed their liquid fuse a little way down the hall, where Fran waited for him.

"It's a good thing we shaln't be needing to return here any time soon," he remarked cheerily, drawing out a pack of matches tapping a single one into his palm. "I don't think it's likely we'll be welcome back." He held up a match towards his partner. "Would you like to do the honours, my dear?" he offered with a grin of guilty pleasure.

"My pleasure," she responded, taking the match from him and striking it against the wall. After dropping it at the very end of the trail, they sprinted as fast as they down the hallway and threw themselves around a corner some hundred metres or so away. Pressing their backs against the firm stone wall, Balthier stopped his ears with his fingers and Fran covered hers with her palms. The explosion knocked them off balance even from distance, and as the aftershocks and protests from the building groaned underneath their feet, they shared a distinctive look; Balthier held out a fist and Fran bumped hers down on top of it.

"I think that's the most fun I've had in weeks," he announced before they sped back down the hallway. The wall was thick, but their explosives were many, the result being a reasonably-sized hole in the wall through which they could now see the shocked and terrified screams of people on the streets. It also turned out to be a supporting wall of some kind, for the beams above their heads started to make worrying creaking noises, and a century or two of dust rained lightly down on top of them.

"I don't much like the sound of that," said Balthier as he pointed up.

"I think it our cue to leave," answered Fran, smirking at him as they checked one last time that they had all their spoils, then clambered through the hole onto the street. Balthier had arranged his load so as to ensure he had his right arm free to carry his gun, which he brandished threateningly at the crowds.

"Nothing to see here," he announced farcically to their audience. "There's only room in this story for _one _hero, so lets not have anyone else trying to be one." Considering he was armed, covered in blood and had just blown a hole in the Imperial Palace, it didn't seem likely anyone would dare; the onlookers just silently cleared a way for them as they fled the scene of the crime - or _crimes_.

* * *

><p>A mysterious stranger strode into the Arcades aerodrome with a short cloak draped around his shoulders and his pulled hood up. Behind him followed a tall female in a long robe and veil; some kind of acolyte judging by her appearance, carrying a stack of musty-looking books under one arm and a heavy-looking chest in the other.<p>

"Afternoon," the cloaked man greeted the girl behind the desk. "Two tickets to Balfonheim, if you will."

"Your papers, sir?" she asked automatically, and then her eyes bolted up as she heard the sound of a pistol hammer.

"I am sure these credentials will suffice," the stranger replied calmly, the end of his gun resting on the very edge of the desk. "Now listen well," he continued in a soft, hushed tone. "If you scream, I'll shoot; if you try to attract someone's attention, I'll shoot you _both_, and if you refuse to make the bookings, I'll sh-" he broke off, seemingly because of his companion's impatient tapping on the mosaic floor. "Put it this way," he amended. "If you do anything other than make two first class bookings to Balfonheim in your mother's maiden name, then place those tickets flat on the desk in front of me, you know _exactly _what will happen." The end of the gun didn't waver by even a hair's width as he spoke, and the way he'd allowed his cloak to drape concealed it to anyone who wasn't paying close attention, which was _everyone_ in a busy Arcadian aerodrome.

"Y-y-yes, sir," the girl stammered, and turned her shaking hands towards the ledgers to make the booking.

"Now, now," the man cooed. "No need to fret. Do as you are told and there'll be no trouble at all."

"T-th-three hundred gil, please," she muttered on instinct again, and then almost jumped out of her own skin when the man laughed with a rich, amused tone. She cursed herself for daring to ask such a thing, thinking she might as well requested a bullet in her head, but then he brought up his other hand and slung at least a thousand gil across the counter.

"Keep the change – for making me laugh," he said smoothly. "And so that there's no need for this little traumatic event to go any further than you and I." He leaned forwards slightly, and for the first time she met his eyes. Her breath hitched in her throat, and she hurriedly swept the gil off the counter, stuffing most of it into her pockets.

"Y-yes, of course," she rushed, scribbling on the details of the passes in erratic handwriting onto the boarding cards, then shoving them onto the top counter. "Enjoy your flight, sir," she told the dangerous but charming stranger, who laughed again and then winked at her.

"Oh, I will," he purred, sliding the gun back off the desk and concealing it by his side once more. "I assure you I _will_." After walking away and handing his partner's boarding card to her, Balthier allowed himself one more chuckle of amusement.

"I always forget how easy it is to do that," he remarked. "Tell me, why do we always end up crawling through that rotten hole of Sochen?"

"Because we usually have our _own_ airship," Fran pointed out drolly. "_You_ just enjoy charming the desk."

"Now, now, Fran," he tutted – although he _was _known to favour the most attractive girl in the aerodrome rather than the least conspicuous. Unlike most of their pursuits, it was a rather peaceful journey that took them back to Balfonheim, though much occupied with picking the lock of the chest, which proved to be slightly more difficult than anticipated.

They also took a closer look at some of the documents Basch had insisted on their taking before they condemned them to a fate as firelighters. It appeared that in the last stretch of his reign, Vayne Solidor had gathered together all his most valuable belongings; diaries, state secrets and other compromising documents, as well as the contents of the chest. Fearing for his life – with fairly good reason – he'd written his last Will and Testament, and then with the help of a scholar of magik, who they presumed met a grisly demise, enchanted the document with a seal that was meant to respond only to his blood.

It was clear he conspired to hide away all his most vital treasures, concealing the key where he'd foolishly assumed no one but himself would know how to find it. In this way, if he died like the secrets and treasures would be lost with him, and if he survived only he would be able to retrieve them. The ill-fated ruler probably never accounted for his last personal effects ending up tossed all over the bed in a first class cabin heading to Balfonheim, with one of Ivalice's most notorious sky pirates gouging at the padlock with a dinner knife. More the fool him.

Upon arrival at Balfonheim, Balthier and Fran descended from the commercial airship last, waiting until all other passengers had disembarked before appearing themselves, the short cloak he'd 'borrowed' – along with the nice Arcadian gentelman's purse – folded over Balthier's arm. He'd taken the opportunity during the flight over to wash off _some_ of the blood and have a shave – though there was still nothing to be done about the disastrous state of his shirt. However, he reassured himself that all would be remedied soon enough.

He approached the nearest guard on-staff, and tapped him politely on the shoulder. Leaning over, he murmured a few things in the young man's ear; as if he'd touched him with an electric rod, the fellow burst into action, racing away from his post and sprinting up to his boss's office. The pair then waited calmly for a heavily-armed escort to meet them, and allowed themselves to be shown up to the aerodrome boss Maxell's office.

"And here I thought I'd never clap eyes on the two of you again," chuckled the wizened Bujerban by way of greeting. "Not alive, at least."

"And miss out on your good company, Max? _Never_," Balthier proclaimed, shouldering aside the guards and lounging uninvited across one of the sofas of the room. He set the cloak down by his feet, the large shape underneath it indicating he was hiding something.

"Been in the wars again, have you?" the scathing man enquired with an eye on Balthier's rather alarming collection of injuries.

"No more than usual," he replied uninterestedly, rather downplaying his ragged appearance. "Have you been good to my dearest in our absence?" he asked with the concern of a worried parent.

"Why, she's never looked finer," was the confidant reply. "A fine addition to my fleet, if I might say so myself." Balthier sat upright with a calm, controlled air, not bolting as if he were surprised or worried, and crossed his arms over his chest.

"It's only a fool who tries to steal from a pirate, Max," he remarked. "Even more the fool that steals from a pair of them – and a madman who does it to Fran and myself. Ba'gamnan learned that lesson the unpleasant way, and I shouldn't like to have to teach you the same one."

"Your threats fail to impress me, Balthier," Max chuckled in response. "Even less than usual, seeing as it looks like you picked a fight with a flight of stairs and _lost._" Balthier scowled, and leant forward a little more seriously.

"Now see here, we had a _deal, _Max – the payment of the gil we owe you in return for the safekeeping of our ship." He relaxed a little more and leant back down again. "I'd like to think of you as a decent enough fellow to keep to a nice, mutually benefiting arrangement like that." Maxell had been chewing on the end of his trademark pipe from the moment they had entered, and finally the enterpriser struck a match and lit the tobacco stuffed inside, puffing on it aggressively.

"Well then, I believe the phrase is_ '_show me the money'_,_" he growled, and all at once, Balthier cracked a grin.

"I thought you'd _never _ask!" he said heartily, and then with a flourish pulled up the cloak, revealing underneath it a lock-box; he effortlessly flipped open the catch and without further ado lifted the lid. Upon seeing the contents Maxell almost bit off the end of his pipe, and only thought to shut his mouth again when Balthier replaced the lid once more.

"Is that..." he began.

"Yes, it is," Balthier answered pre-emptively, "and plenty of it." He reached into his pack and tossed five small medallions across the coffee table between them. "More than enough to cover our expenses, wouldn't you agree?" he suggested as they span and clattered to a stop. Maxell nodded mutely and Balthier pulled out another disc, flipping it carelessly along with the rest. "A little commission to you, for your trouble on our behalf," he added generously, and then glanced over to the men who had brought them up. "Now, if you fellows would show myself and my partner to our ship, we would be very much obliged." He stood up, closing and lifting the chest with him as the men looked to their employer for approval; Max nodded animatedly and then shook his hand towards the door.

"Of course, of course! Don't just _stand_ there you damned fools! Show the pride of Balfonheim here to the Strahl," he barked, and so with a chaotic clutter of voices and footsteps, the awe-struck guards made way for Balthier, Fran, and the largest cache of Dalmascan white gold Hume eyes had ever seen.

* * *

><p><em>End of Chapter 20<em>

* * *

><p>There is only one last epiloguechapter left now, folks! It's been a helluva a ride, and may have taken a while but I hope it's been worth it.


	21. Chapter 21

Pirates of Ivalice - Chapter 21

Epilogue

_A Pirate leaves no end loose.  
><em>

* * *

><p>Balthier strode out of his quarters with purpose and poise, fastening the cuff links on a new, <em>clean <em>shirt with swagger that Fran would have testified made him seem a good few years younger. Whatever it was that he'd lacked since the Bahamut – perhaps even before it, considering the fruitlessness of the quest that had brought them there – it was _back_, and it was ready for business.

"Are you ready for takeoff, dear?" he asked Fran fondly, the teasing humour of his words almost refreshing for once. He rested a hand on the back of her seat while she ran through the engine checks, if only to enjoy the smooth tone as every single one turned back a flawless report; Nono and his team had outdone themselves again – and earned a more than generous salary in reward.

"Aye, _captain,_" she mocked, and then watched with amusement as Balthier curled himself into the newly reupholstered pilot's seat with a blissful grin; they were homeagain.

"Ready the engines," he directed, and then with a slow, delicious purr the glossar engines came alive – not a bird or nest in sight. They raised from the ground so smoothly they could have been on a pulley, revving until the ship was like a cork in the top of a bottle of champagne.

The pilot shot his navigator a knowing look, and then within a split-second they blasted off, tearing away from the Balfonheim aerodrome with enough force to throw tiles from the roofs of nearby houses. No better way to make it known that Balthier Bunansa, and his partner Fran, the only Viera pirate in Ivalice, were back in the skies once more.

Vaan and Penelo were enjoying a couple of Dalmascan Drainpipes in a tavern at Nalbina – the common pitstop for sky pirates making their way from Arcadia down into Rozzaria, when, after slinging an arm back over his chair and casting a bored glance over at the door, Vaan took a swig of his drink only to almost spit it straight back out.

"Buh-urk! Ack!" he choked, slamming his cup down on the table as Penelo stared at him disparagingly. "Mmmf!" he insisted, pointing across the room wildly.

"What are you... Oh!" Penelo gasped as she followed Vaan's gestures. "Is that?"

"Balthier!" Vaan yelped when he was capable of speech at last. "Fran?"

The two noticed Vaan and Penelo – it was quite impossible _not _to notice them with the fuss the former was kicking up – and casually made their way across the room.

"Fancy seeing you here," announced Balthier coolly, darting a glance over at Vaan and his companion. "Penelo," he murmured warmly, and then winked at her.

"Uh... hi," she replied, a little dazed and slightly flushed. "Oh, and hi Fran," she added upon turning to the Viera, who nodded acknowledgement.

"What are you guys doing here?" Vaan hushed. "Don't you remember what happened _last _time you stopped round these parts?"

"Quite graphically, Vaan, yet I distinctly remember being _your _fault," Balther remarked caustically, but his expression soon mellowed. "Anyway, you worry too much," he dismissed, dragging up a chair and patting the boy on the shoulder as he sat down.

"But... what _are _you doing here?" Penelo reiterated, just as bemused as her partner and unwilling to let the matter slide so easily.

"Is a free man not entitled to stop over in a tavern for a well-needed rest after a hard day's flying?" exclaimed Balthier scathingly. "You young types are so _judgemental_."

"So you're back in the Strahl?" Vaan surmised, and Fran gave him such a cutting look that a full answer wasn't at all necessary. "But what about all the fuss in Balfonheim? How did you get out?" The last time he and Penelo had been at the port a number of very threatening and powerful individuals were issuing personal warrants for Balthier and Fran's heads – or better yet, the Strahl – on a plate.

"It was settled," Balthier explained without the vaguest hint of caring. "Matters are awfully easy to resolve when you have the appropriate funds. In fact, we're quite the talk of the town in Balfonheim these days, aren't we Fran?" he said with a turn towards his partner.

"For the _right _reasons," she specified. "For once." Balthier clicked his tongue at her as he unhooked a small leather purse from one of his belts, and started tapping it against the table to hear the wonderful clink of gil inside.

"Friends, I think I shall join you for the next round," he announced to Vaan and Penelo, then reached across the table for her glass and tipped it towards him; he sniffed the concoction delicately, then pulled an elaborately disgusted face and promptly turned the cup upside down, emptying the rest of the contents onto the floor.

"Hey!" Penelo barked. "That was _mine_, Balthier!"

"No creature delicate as yourself should drink things as rough as _that_, Penelo," he explained dotingly, half a smile lifting his face and a warm, infective chuckle on his lips. "I shall buy you a new one." He stood up decisively, and strode over to the bar, leaving Fran with them, her head leant boredly on one hand; it was better to wait for her partner's show to end rather than try to interrupt it.

"Uhm, what just happened?" Vaan asked; Fran lazily raised her eyes to him, and then they creased into a unmistakable smirk.

"You will see," she teased, and it wasn't long before Balthier returned with three glasses and a bottle of the most expensive drink in the house.

"I'm afraid to say I've no idea _what _it is," he announced as he set the objects down on the table. "It cost enough, though, so perhaps it won't be as likely to strip the lining of my throat off as your usual desert engine-polish." He poured a small amount into one of the glasses and held it up to the light, noticing a distinctly purplish tint to the dark translucent liquid before he tipped it back. Then no more than two seconds passed before he doubled over, slamming a fist against the table and heaving in a half-cough, half-gasp for air motion. Covering his mouth, he hacked for at least half a minute before he straightened up again and slumped into a chair.

"...Perhaps not," he croaked, his face paling as Vaan and Penelo both poured generous glasses and took a swig.

"You're such a drama queen, Balthier," Penelo taunted as she sipped uninterestedly from her cup.

"It just tastes like fruit juice," Vaan proclaimed boisterously. "I can't taste the alcohol in it at all." He then leant back and drained his glass completely, while Balthier watched with nothing less than horror.

"Suddenly, so much of your personality makes sense to me, Vaan," he muttered.

"This is a nice gesture and all," Penelo interjected, waving her hand around the costly alcohol, "but, uh, well..." she faltered trying to grasp the right words.

"Where'd you get the money?" Vaan supplied with all the subtly of a drunk Seeq. Penelo flinched, half-expecting Balthier to lean over the table and smash the bottle over his head, but instead he just laughed.

"Ohh, that's for me to know and you to wonder, Vaan," he taunted. "A sky pirate never reveals his secrets."

"Heey," whined the younger, former apprentice-of-sorts. "But you used to tell me _all _your tricks."

"Ah, but that was before you set off into Ivalice and became an important, independent, _backstabbing _sky pirate all of your own," he cooed, attempting to reach up and ruffle Vaan's hair, had he not backed away out of Balthier's reach. "Besides, it's more fun to watch you try and guess."

"Baal-_thieeeere_," Vaan kicked up in a distinctive whine. "Come on, where's the stash?"

"My lips are sealed, Vaan," he retorted, making an appropriate gesture to match.

"Gods forbid," Fran was heard to murmur under her breath, but if anyone heard, they didn't acknowledge it.

"Okay, so the gil's one thing," said Penelo compromisingly, "but what about the rest of it?"

"Can't say I follow you," Balthier replied airily, attempting another sip of the liquor and finding it almost as painful as the last.

"Well... Ashe? Larsa? Half of Ivalice wanting you and Fran alive or preferably dead?"

"Ohh," he laughed richly, drumming the fingers of one hand on the table. "All _those _matters have been settled, though it is nice of you to ask," he elaborated with an unashamedly flirtatious look her way.

"What do you mean _settled?" _Vaan pressed. "You don't just _settle _several million gil in bounties between here and Arcadia."

"You don't," Balthier rephrased, and then glanced over at Fran with a crafty smile. "_We _do."

"That's not an answer, Balthier!" Vaan snapped.

"Temper, temper," Balthier retorted condescendingly. "If you are so keen to know, I suppose we can enlighten you a little," he conceded at last, basking in the attentive rays emanating from Vaan as he leaned over to listen."You see, all good pirates know that after a particularly upsetting series of jobs, it always does to clean house a little. You never want the authorities to be troubled enough by you to set _actual _forces on your tail."

"Okay," Vaan agreed, slipping back into the role of awestruck apprentice too naturally to even notice, "but how did you do it?"

"How did _we _do it," Balthier corrected. "It was Fran's idea to – how should I say – _motivate _certain individuals with access to notable documents to lose the records on myself and Fran."

Naturally, Basch hadn't been all that pleased with the request, made only after he and Fran had escaped Arcades; in exchange for burning all of Vayne's official documents – which could have a devastating effect on the Arcadian political machine were they to go public – he would similarly destroy every record of Fran and himself. Though unhappy with the belated randome, he couldn't deny that he'd brought it upon himself, having literally put the valuable papers in his and Fran's hands in the first place.

"Furthermore," Fran contributed to the narrative at last; her pride in the affair no less than her partner's, but at least a little more understated, "Things of little value to us, but much more to a young man of great power, were exchanged in return for the dropping of our names from the bounties list in Arcadia."

It would also suffice to say that Basch would be even less pleased to discover that not only had he destroyed their records, but his master had erased their names from national most-wanted lists in exchange for the diaries that he'd tried so hard to keep from Larsa's hands all this time.

In fact it was Balthier who'd made the final decision about sending Vayne's diaries – along with the now-useless will – to Larsa he'd concluded that the boy should be free to make up his own mind about his brother, and that he was a strong enough individual to deal with what he discovered in the right way.

"As far as the Arcadian state knows, Fran and I do not exist," Balthier concluded grandiosely, enjoying every second of Vaan's stunned expression. Whatever misguided thoughts the boy might have had about supplanting him as the dominant pirating force in the skies, they were all now quite assuredly shelved.

"Wow..." was all Balthier's former protégée had to say.

"I rather think you've still a lot to learn, eh, Vaan?" Balthier gloated. "Now, as for the radiant Lady Ashe, whose passion for getting her hands around my throat knows no bounds." Fran looked at Penelo and rolled her eyes, the two sharing an understanding moment.

"Yeah, Ashe was _pissed_," Vaan eloquently stated; he ought know, as she had hired him to bring Balthier to her for imprisonment, and he still remembered exactly how colourful her language had been. "How'd you manage that?"

"Always remember your audience, Vaan," Balthier tutored. "While a powerful head of state, tough negotiator, and proud leader, milady is still quite assuredly a _woman_, and in our case, a woman scorned on personal matters – _not _political. Amends can be made on the same level."

"Whaddya mean, you were stealing from Ashe left right and centre," Vaan pointed out, but Balthier held up a finger to stop him.

"_Only _because she'd insist on insulting me at every turn she could. See, the Lady and I's spats always come back to one thing, and that is a singularly ugly wedding ring that I may or may not have desecrated before retuning it her," he explained with a remarkably inappropriate air of guiltlessness, all things considered.

"Ohh, I remember," Vaan followed.

"So, for a ring ruined," he began elegantly, and then reached for a hand to draw a solid ring from one of his fingers, cast from a beautiful silvery metal tinged with just a hint of gold. "A ring gifted," he concluded, rolling the jewellery between his fingers with an incredibly satisfied look. "Though," he added, "hers is of a far more beautiful and ladylike design. I chose it myself, of course."

While Vaan's eye was usually sharper than his partner's when pirating was concerned, Penelo's was much quicker to the point when jewels or jewellery were concerned; hers widened slightly as she fixed upon the ring.

"Isn't that-" she attempted to say.

"Dalmascan white gold?" he finished for her. "Why, yes it is. I must confess, I could not have one cast for Her Majesty without having another for myself. If it is good enough for royalty, tis surely good enough for me." He slipped the item back onto his hand – notably not his wedding finger, at least – and grinned even wider at the two of them.

"You gave her a _ring_?" Vaan exclaimed disparagingly. "That can't have worked. It couldn't be _that _easy." It had taken Vaan months to get back into his monarch's good books after offending her pride, and he had still never even come _close_ to angering her the way Balthier had.

"Oh?" hummed Balthier, raising an eyebrow questioningly. "Do you _see_ any Dalmascan guards attempting to haul us away? Hmm? We walked past a good few on our way in – even docked at the aerodrome, you can go look for yourself," he said with a gesture.

"I don't believe it..." Penelo muttered into her arms, which were folded over her face as she sunk her head onto the table. "I really don't believe it."

"You shall have to get used to it, I'm afraid," Balthier said without any true feelings of apology. "Fran and I are very much back in business, so you're to expect much more of the same in the future. Right, Fran?" he asked with a dazzling grin flashed over at his partner.

"Of course," she agreed confidently.

"So lemme get this straight," Vaan announced boldly. "You found some _huge_ jackpot of treasure, paid off all your enemies in Balfonheim, blackmailed or bribed the Arcadians into deleting you from their records and then sent Ashe a fancy ring to say sorry for making her life hell?"

"In a nutshell," confirmed Balthier. "Yes, I think that pretty much covers it, don't you Fran?"

"We also blew a hole in the Arcadian Imperial Palace walls," she added, thinking it an achievement worthy of some regard.

"Oh jeesh," Vaan gaped. "What _didn't _you do?"

"Well, we _didn't _sit around taverns in Nalbina all day poisoning our minds with glossar fuel," Balthier piped up sternly, rapping his finger on the side of the liquor bottle. "Treasure doesn't just fall into your lap, Vaan, you have to go out and seize it, whatever the costs. Fran and I are on our way to Rozzaria now, seeing as we've quite clearly exhausted Arcadia for some time."

"But..." Vaan mumbled bemusedly, "you've got it all. What do you even _do_ next?"

"Pardon?" said Balthier sharply, as if he'd misheard him.

"If you're loaded with gil, beat up your biggest enemy and paid off all the authorities, what else is there to do?" Vaan reiterated, at which Balthier stared at him completely blankly. He then looked at Fran, who shrugged with an equally clueless expression.

"Are you... are you honestly asking," he began cautiously, "what a pair of sky pirates are to do following the acquisition of a vast cache of treasure?"

"Well... yeah," he confessed; Balthier and Fran shared the same bemused look.

"_Really?_" Balthier asked.

"Yeah," Vaan repeated a little more irately.

"You... do not jest?" Fran added to the interrogation, leaning across the table in disbelief.

"No, I'm not joking!" Vaan snapped. "I'm just saying, if you've already got a huge load of treasure, what do you do next?"

Balthier and Fran stared at Vaan, then over at each other, as if they were only just realizing he was serious; at which point, they _both _burst out laughing.

"Much of a pirate still needs to be made of you," Fran told him between soft rolls of mirth, her chest fluttering as she chuckled along with her partner, whose rich laugh rung across the tavern in bouncy, almost melodic notes.

"Why, Vaan – didn't you know?" Balthier sighed as his hysterics subsided, propping up his chin on his hand as he looked levelly across the table. "They look for _more_."

* * *

><p><em>The End<em>

* * *

><p>Wow, so this is actually <em>the end<em>. I'm serious. Over! It took me bloody long enough. I got a few reviews in my inbox thismorning and it spurred me onto finally getting this last chapter up.

Now just to revise and format it for an ebook, eh? ;P

Keep on flying, guys. I hope you enjoyed the read.


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